#and its instant cut off. no closure. no talking. no nothing.

[blitzisms]

vent ahead, be warned. idk how to do read more on mobile, sorry.

You ever just want to go off on a petty rant because you used to be friends with people who are absolute hypocrites of themselves because they preach themselves as soft and good people for their friends but the moment that you need them they flake on you and assume terrible shit about you besides knowing you for months and maybe years? No? Nevermind then today was baller how's it going.

[wastelandlovingscenarios]

regret | deacon x sole survivor

“i don’t feel the same way, charmer.” his voice was barely a whisper.

sole felt a lump grow in their throat as they tried to fight back the tears that threatened to escape. they tried to let out a simple, “okay, i understand,” but only silence filled the air.

deacon knows. he catches the tears building up in their eyes and knows their voice is silently attempting to scratch its way out.

he desperately wants to stop their pain, wipe their tears and remind them that he thinks no differently of their relationship, but something in his heart tugs as sole fights back to hide their vulnerability from him. “i’m sorry.” is all he truly lets out because in reality, his words are just as lost as soles own.

to sole, his words become a blur. their knees become weak as their vision becomes clouded with tears they refuse to let out.

‘i’ll give them time,’ he thinks but his feet struggle to find movement as he continues to stare down at sole, speechless for the first time in a long while.

before he could make a move, sole rushes out of the room, not sparing him a second glance. the sound of the door shutting behind him breaks deacon out of his trance, grounding him back to reality.

a tinge of regret pokes at his heart and he silently pushes it away, knowing that this was for the best. he didn’t have feelings for them and it was nothing but the truth.

or so he thought.

-

the next few weeks are almost a blur for him as his partner goes mia from the commonwealth. the first two weeks, he tries to let it be, convincing himself that sole might’ve needed some time to themselves to sort their feelings out, so he lets them. seeing them might be the last thing they need, so he tries to fight the urge to do so.

yet, as time goes by, the worry in his heart rapidly grows when they’re announced as missing by the minutemen. he grows unnaturally quiet upon hearing their words and feels himself grow weak at the possibilities of what could’ve happened to his partner.

searching far and wide did almost nothing for him and only flared his concern. there was little to no clues of their disappearance and the hope that he would find them sooner or later began to slowly deteriorate.

deacon takes in a deep breath, trying to soothe his mind of all the concern and regret. how could he let it get this bad? why couldn’t he at least check up on them day to day instead of running away?

deep down, he knew the truth of it all. it screamed volumes to him and no matter how much he tried to silence it, it grew louder with every passing second. he avoided sole as much as they avoided him because deacon refused to confront the truth between them both. he never provided closure because he never knew how to.

and the more he refused to face the reality of the situation, the longer the days stretched. he found himself pushing everyone away, spending countless nights with tears streaming down his face, hoping someday sole would just turn up on the railroads doorstep. he didn’t care if they forgave him or not— he just wanted to see them safe.

tonight, he found himself with a bottle in his hand, hunching over the counter as he drank the night. he silently thanked lady luck for landing him in an almost empty bar for no one to catch the state he put himself in. unbeknownst to him, a certain mercenary watched his back from the minute he’s entered the bar till the very last drop of his nth bottle.

“you know, i don’t think that’s a very healthy thing to do.” deacon looked over his shoulder, and though his vision continued to spin, he automatically recognized the annoying face that pestered him.

“let a man ‘ave fun, asshole.” he slurred, trying to push out a grin. maccready rolled his eyes and occupied the seat near deacon, folding his arms.

“i’m serious.” mac pulled the bottle away from his hands, tossing it to the bin nearby.

“hey, i was-!” before he could finish, the mercenary cut him off, not wanting to listen to a word that left his mouth. “do you wanna talk about it?”

his words cut through the facade he tried to pull off and deacon immediately fell silent upon his words. “i know we don’t meet eye to eye all that much, but i hate to see you like this.”

as much as he wanted to lie to his face, continue his said facade, he wasn’t physically able to upkeep that image anymore. it was extremely tiring, especially with everything going on. he let out a sigh and allowed his head to fall on his arms that rested on the table. “you wouldn’ understan’.”

theres a pregnant pause, but he eventually responds. “i don’t, but i could try.”

it takes him a few moments to decide whether or not to confide in someone, especially maccready of all people. to his dismay, the words leave his mouth before he could stop himself from letting it out.

“you won’t tell?” it’s a point of no return— he knows — but for some reason, he doesn’t take it back. was the consequences of actions finally getting to him? probably. he didn’t have time to think as maccready let out a small, but shocked, “of course.”

and so he lets it out— not everything — but enough for maccready to get the message. how it all lead up this point and how it contributed to their disappearance.

“i think i made a mistake.” he says, voice barely a whisper. “i made a huge fucking mistake and i don’t know what to do.”

mac looks down at agent with sympathy, detecting the pain trapped in his voice and sighs, “we all do. it’s just the human in us.”

the rest of his words grow obscured as his eyes droop, the alcohol and sleepless nights finally catching up to him. slowly, but surely, the world blacks out.

-

it’s almost dreamlike— the feeling of his hair being brushed softly and the way a familiar voice lulls him awake. he lets out a small groan as his head pounds violently from what he hoped was the night before. he thinks it’s all in his head; the soft touches and the soft voice that continued to fall upon his ears. it’s so painfully familiar, yet it couldn’t be but he felt his heart jump at the possibility of it.

“sole?” his eyes shoot open but close back in an instant as the gentle light illuminating from the window cracks filled his vision. his head dips on what seems to be their lap, trying to block it out desperately. he felt the same hand that brushed his locks rest on top of his eyes to protect it from the sunlight that only made his head throb more.

“morning sleepyhead.” upon hearing that sweet sound, tears began to form in his eyes once more. the one person he’s yearned to see for what seemed like centuries was finally within arms reach. just like that, his tears fell effortlessly, collecting in soles hand as it streamed down his cheeks.

“deacon?” before they could remove their hand to reveal the tears spilling from his eyes, he quickly places his hand on top of theirs as a silent request to keep his eyes hidden.

“i’m sorry.” he chokes out, voice cracking through each word that left his lips, “i’m fucking sorry. i-“ he gently squeezed the same hand that rested on top of theirs. sole remained silent, watching as he spoke through ragged breaths. he tried his best to muster out his apologies, thoughts — feelings — through the pounding of his mind.

“everything i said, it was a lie. it was all a fucking lie just to avoid having some kind of attachment in my life. i hurt you because i was scared of facing my fears.”

“lie? scared? deacon, what-,” their words drifted into nothingness as deacon continued on.

“no matter how much i tried to run away from it, i knew i couldn’t. i had feelings for you. feelings more than this partnership that we both agreed to do, more than the best friends we claimed to be.” at this point, his feelings poured through the cracks of his heart and he knew that he would fix it this time, even if sole no longer felt the same way. ���i fell for you hard. i was in love with you and i still am, sole.”

after a deep breath, he continued on. “you don’t have to forgive me. you don’t even have to give me the chance to love you properly, i just want you to know i’m sorry. i’m sorry it had to take you to leave from my life for me realize how much this meant to me. how much you meant to me.”

for a moment, it’s still; the air seems tense at first and time seems to freeze. there’s this sense of fear that overtakes his mind for a mere second.

soon enough, time seems to continue on as sole places a soft kiss on his forehead, allowing it to linger for a few seconds. “we’ll talk about this more when you wake up, okay?” they whisper and as reassuring as it sounds, he’s still terrified. terrified that he’ll wake up alone.

“will you be here when i wake up?” he tries to let it out calmly, but there is a hint of panic and unsureness in his voice he couldn’t push away any longer. all of that seems to melt away as sole lets out a small chuckle, his heart swelling with a mix of pain and relief.

“yes.” they reassure, “i’ll be here for as long as you need me.”

he let out a relieved sigh, keeping his hand on top of the one that covered his eyes. for the first time in weeks, everything finally felt right.

“love you, charmer.” before he could hear their reply, he felt himself being pulled into slumber that quietly called his name.

[lena-in-a-red-dress]

Notting Hill AU Snippet #10

Kara doesn't call.

Lena doesn't know if she wants her to, of if she just aches for a new kind of hurt, after the sting fades to a throb fades to a bonedeep sense of loss. When her therapist asks, she tells the truth: she doesn't know what she expected by inviting Kara Danvers into her home a second time. It had simply felt... right.

Weeks bleed together, time losing its meaning as Lena trudges through attempts from her friends to distract her. She sees Lex more than ever. He and Nia set her up on more than one date, but not one scratches Lena's surface.

"I could kill her for what she's done," Lena overhears Andrea telling Lex one night. "Look at her: it's as bad as Veronica."

"Worse, even." Lex's voice is low and concerned. He's always good for a laugh, but is at a loss when every single joke lands like a sack of bricks. Lena doesn't hear anymore. She slips out and texts an apology the next morning.

One day, Nia visits the bookshop with Querl in tow. She's radiant with excitement, enough so that even Lena nearly catches it.

"You are going to love me forever," Nia says, offering Lena a slip of paper. On it is written a phone number.

"What is this?" Lena asks.

"The number of Kara's agent in America."

The news hits Lena like a kick to the stomach. Her chest locks, and suddenly it feels like she can't breathe.

"I thought," Nia continues, suddenly nervous when Lena doesn't respond, "now you can finally call her. Now that things have calmed down. Get some closure, if nothing else..."

Lena still can't respond. Finally, Nia curls her hand around the slip of paper for her.

"Just, promise me you'll think about it, okay?"

It lives in Lena's pocket for a week, heavy and foreboding. Twice, she almost reaches for the phone. In the end, she throws it in the waste paper bin outside the shop and walks away.

---

One night, Lena finds herself sitting on her brother's couch. With Lex sitting next to her reading the paper and Andrea working on her laptop in the nearby armchair, the room is quiet. Normally, Lena prefers the silence, but tonight it weighs on her like a lead blanket.

"I should have known better, shouldn't I?"

The question slips from her without thought, marking the first time she's spoken of the great Kara Danvers debacle since it happened. Both Lex and Andrea look at her, and suddenly Lena's eyes fill with tears.

"Maybe-- maybe I'm just not meant for you two have. I should have taken the hint when my first crush fell in love with my brother instead. Spare myself the trouble."

"No," Andrea says, snapping her laptop shut and setting it aside to focus her entire attention on Lena. "No, just because I didn't love you the same way doesn't mean you aren't meant for happiness."

"Yeah," Lex chimes in. "And it's not been all sunshine and roses for us either. But the not so great moments are the entry fee you pay to get to the good stuff."

Lena wipes her eyes. She wonders if this was how the american colonies felt-- taxation without representation. Well, consider this her declaration. She's done.

"No," Andrea says again, recognizing the look on Lena's face. "You don't get to give up, Lena. We won't let you."

"Mmhmm," Lex agrees with his wife. "No one deserves to be happy more than you do. You'll get there... and maybe sooner rather than later."

"What does that mean?"

"It means," Lex says, folding his newspaper and handing it over, "that someone's back in London."

"Lex..." Andrea warns.

"What?"

Their conversation fades out as Lena stares at the headline. Kara Danvers Returns. It features a picture of Kara in a ballgown, grasping her academy award with a beaming smile, and a second image of a filming location filled with actors in period costume. The caption identifies the location as Hampstead Heath.

Though the image of Kara brings fresh tears to her eyes, Lena feels a strange sense of calm. Kara is okay. In that moment, she realizes that so much of her anguish was the not knowing whether Kara had recovered from the media blitz that had ended their tryst so spectacularly.

Now she does, and Lena feels... okay.

She coughs a laugh, wiping her eyes again as she stands. "I should go."

"Oh, Lena..."

"No, Drea, I'm okay. Thank you." Lena sniffles. "For caring."

Andrea rises, enveloping Lena in a hug. "I do love you, you know. That's never not been true."

Lena nods. "I believe you."

---

For a few days, Lena thinks the peace of knowing Kara is okay will be enough. But three days after Lex hands her the newspaper, Lena finds herself in Hampstead Heath, walking past horse drawn carriages and crewhands working diligently, eyes peeled for a flash of blonde hair.

She runs into a production assistant first. "Can I help you?" he asks, subtly shifting to stand in her path and keep her from going any further.

"Um, yes, hopefully. I'm here to see Kara Danvers, if she's not busy. I'm a friend."

"A friend," the guy says, clearly unconvinced.

"Yes, as far-fetched as that seems. I--"

She stops abruptly when the sound of a familiar laugh drifts through the air. In an instant, Lena zeroes in on the source, and sees Kara stepping out of her trailer with her agent in tow, her face alight with mirth.

Her agent grins back, clearly pleased with herself as she peels off to head in a different direction. Kara joins up with a trio of other actors heading towards the south lawn of the hampstead manor. They pause briefly, and in that moment Kara turns, and their eyes meet.

Electricity fills Lena from head to toe, rooting her to the spot even as her hand lifts in a hesitant wave.

Kara stares for a moment more, until Lena carefully retracts her hand. Only then does she say a word to her costars and take her leave, closing the distance to where Lena stands with her new friend.

Said friend notices Kara's reaction and stands aside, allowing Lena to approach the picket line marking the boundary of the set. They meet on either side, neither speaking for a long moment.

"What're you doing here?"

Kara's question cuts like a knife, and Lena has to swallow against the sudden lump that rises to her throat.

"I heard you were in town," she says softly, "and I..."

Again, she doesn't know why she's here. She doesn't know what she wants to say or how she hopes this conversation will end. She's just... here.

For now, even with all things unsaid between them, it feels like enough.

"Excuse me, Kara?"

Another production assistant calls for Kara, and the moment shatters. Kara holds up one finger, earning them a few more seconds.

"Um, things aren't going very well, and it's our last day, so..."

"Right, you're clearly very busy, I shouldn't have--"

"But if you could wait?" Kara asks, cutting Lena off before she can bolt. Lena looks at her, and in Kara's gaze she sees nothing but a wary earnestness. "There are... things to say."

Lena feels herself nod. "Of course."

"Okay," Kara breathes. "Great. I'll come find you when I can?"

Lena nods again. Kara leaves, taking all the air in Lena's lungs with her. Lena flexes her trembling hands, then hides them in her pockets when someone approaches and offers to take her behind the cameras.

The walk through the cultivated garden filled with costumed actors is thrilling in its own way, allowing Lena a glimpse into Kara's life as an actor rather than just a celebrity.

"Here," her guide says, passing Lena off to the sound technician. "Bill here can hook you up with some headphones to listen in. The actors are already mic'd."

Lena offers Bill a smile of thanks when he hands her a headset. There's also a small monitor, allowing Lena to see what the cameras currently see-- Kara Danvers running lines with another woman.

"So I ask you when you're telling everyone, and you say..."

"Tomorrow will be soon enough."

"Right, and then I..." On the monitor, Kara nods under her lace parasol. "Got it. Thanks, Siobhan."

Her costar, Siobhan, nods, then leans back against the fence behind her. "So. Who was the hottie you were talking to on the way to set?"

With a jolt, Lena realizes that she's suddenly the topic of conversation. She shifts uncomfortably in her seat, fidgeting with her headset-- but not removing it. Not yet.

"Oh. No one."

Lena swallows, her cheeks heating with a mortified flush. She was so stupid for coming here-- but Kara's not done.

"Just a friend from the past. It's actually kind of an awkward situation-- I don't know what she's doing here, actually."

The ground falls out from under Lena's feet, making her stomach swoop sickeningly. She tears the headset from her head, and shoves it back into Bill's hands.

"Sorry, I've got to--"

She doesn't bother finding an excuse. She simply bolts, and doesn't look back.

previous / next

[alpacaparkaseok]

Lost & Found - 7

Pairing: Park Jimin x soulmate (oc)

Warnings: Insecurity, anxiety, abandonment

Word Count: 4.1k

a/n: as always, THANK YOU for reading! Thank you for reblogging (which is literally every author’s dream), liking, commenting (I DIE OVER YOUR COMMENTS/ASKS, THEY ARE THE HIGHLIGHT OF MY DAY) and just reading in gereral! Enjoy!

Chapter 7. Lie to Me

series masterlist

Jimin finds himself robbed of breath as he watches that red thread dancing in the wind, the twin to his own. His heart is unsure of whether or not it wants to beat like a drum or stop altogether, leaving him clutching his chest.

Slowly, so slowly that it almost hurts, he brings his eyes up to the girl’s face. Only catching her side profile, he can’t help but be taken by surprise.

Soft is the first word that comes to mind when he catches sight of her eyes, her cheeks and nose. Her lips are pursed from where she must be biting them, making him emit a choked sigh. Her hair, falling around her shoulders, is deep with color.

He watches with no small amount of devastation as her eyes land on Elle’s figure, the cat already bounding down the stairs to greet her in the street. Coming to a stop, the woman crouches down and sets her groceries beside her. She reaches out to scratch Elle’s ears, and Jimin is unable to do anything but watch as those pursed lips ease out into a soft, beautiful smile.

It’s a smile, Jimin realizes, that he was meant to wake up to for the rest of his life.

Stuck in his trance, Jimin sees the woman pull her phone out and type out a quick message. Slipping her phone back into her pocket, she grabs her groceries once again and begins to trek up the stairs.

Like the sound of a nail being hammered into his coffin, his phone pings with a text notification. He doesn’t look at it just yet, refusing to accept the reality. He keeps his eyes glued to the girl, his heart throwing itself at his ribs with undeniable vigor.

Step.

She turns to head up to the top right-hand apartment, Elle leading the way.

Step.

Now she’s fishing keys out of her pocket, saying something to Elle as the cat leaps through the window with ease.

Step.

She’s pressed up close to the door now, fumbling a little with the lock before the door gives way.

Step.

Making sure she has everything, the girl does a quick inventory of her bags, giving Jimin a complete view of her face for a split second before stepping inside.

Close.

The minutes tick by, but Jimin remains frozen in place, staring at that door with the number 6 hanging from it. The inside of his head turns into a hurricane, not giving him enough time to batter down the hatches before everything comes pouring down. Bringing a shaking hand to his mouth, Jimin finally tears his gaze from the door as it all becomes too much and the tears begin to stream down his face.

It’s there, quietly sobbing in his car, that Jimin realizes that he will be forever haunted by the image of his soulmate. And it’s there, one hand wringing the steering wheel while the other tries to silence his cries, that he curses the cruelty of fate.

Cutting the thread wasn’t enough, he knows that now. Just because his soulmate - Jolie is his soulmate’s name, how can a name be so beautiful? - cut the thread, doesn’t mean that she stopped fate. There are other common threads that bind them together.

Who could have expected it to come in the form of a cat?

Hands shaking violently, Jimin turns the key in the ignition. The bawdy tune on the radio is turned off the instant it comes on, and he’s left staring at his phone that sits atop his console.

Closing his eyes and grabbing it, he does his best to control his breathing. With tears still escaping his eyes, he looks at the message that arrived what feels like eons ago.

Jolie (Elle): Thanks for dropping Elle off! I hope it wasn’t too much of an inconvenience for you.

Jimin is at a complete loss for words, so he does the only thing he can.

He calls Namjoon.

✂

“Did you enjoy your night out?”

Elle preens on the kitchen counter, looking like she definitely did. I shoo her away, setting the groceries down and immediately beginning to put them away.

“Well, I’m glad. Good to know I was worried sick over nothing.” When Elle doesn’t begin to miraculously speak, I sigh. “You know, I went and saw that therapist today. The one my boss talked about a couple weeks ago.”

I pause for a moment, staring at the can of soup in my hands. Reading the nutrition label but hardly seeing it at all. It’s still early in the day, but I find myself already at a loss as to what I should be doing with the rest of the day.

“Now that you’re home, wanna go on a fieldtrip?” Elle perks up at my offer, tail lazily swishing back and forth. Putting the rest of my groceries away, I fumble around for my jacket. Then, staring at the envelope Namjoon gave me that still sits on my nightstand, I walk past it and grab a small business card sitting atop my dresser.

I have some homework to do.

If I’m supposed to come to terms with the events of the past couple of weeks, I might as well start with the person that assisted me in this entire process. That, and Christina may very well be the only person that doesn’t want to strangle me at the moment.

Chung-hei and Namjoon are supportive, but they see this as one thing and one thing only: wrong.

Elle is already waiting for me by the door when I reemerge, slipping the jacket on. She bounds out the door as soon as I open it, heading toward the small path that leads toward the park. I chuckle, the sound at odds with the uneasy feeling in my chest.

“Not that way,” I call to the confused cat. “We’re taking a bus to Itaewon.”

✂

Jimin is sitting on a stool by the kitchen island when the boys come stumbling through the door. He hardly flinches at the sudden change, only staring at the marble countertop. Staring at it like it might come up with the answers he needs, but not getting any input.

Namjoon received a call about an hour ago from Jimin, the younger boy nearly hyperventilating into the phone as he told him two things before dissolving into some sort of shocked silence.

“It was her.”

“Help.”

It didn’t take much for Namjoon to piece it all together. He had just been on the phone with Chung-hei that morning, trying to remember if Jolie had a white cat named Elle, and if Jimin was indeed in possession of that same cat.

Chung-hei had confirmed it, although she was just as shocked as Namjoon. What are the odds?

Apparently better than they thought, if Jimin’s current state is any indication.

Namjoon had wanted to stop Jimin, but after a long chat with his soulmate, he decided that it may be best to just let fate run its course.

Now, looking at Jimin who has finally lifted his head, he wonders if he was a fool for letting it go this far.

“Jimin-ah we’re home,” Taehyung announces, heading straight toward the island and taking a stool on his right. Yoongi takes the one on the left, Jungkook settling for wrapping his arms around Jimin’s shoulders and nuzzling his nose into his hair in the way that only Jungkook does.

Jin, j-hope, and Namjoon all weave around to stand on the opposite side of the island, exchanging worried glances. Unfortunately, none of them are experts in severed soulmate bonds. However, they do consider themselves to be Jimin experts.

Hopefully that will be enough.

“Do you want to tell us what happened?” The question comes from Yoongi.

It falls silent as everyone waits for Jimin to speak. The quiet seems to be pressing in from all sides, nearly suffocating them.

Raising his head a bit more but not looking anywhere but the countertop, Jimin relinquishes his lip from where he was chewing on it.

“Her name is Jolie.” Jimin’s voice is still a bit shaky, but he pushes forward almost as though this is his only chance to get the words out before they’re forever locked up inside his mind. “Elle is...her cat. She was grocery shopping, I thought she was nice.”

“You talked to her?” Jungkook asks.

Jimin shakes his head. “No...not face to face. I had her number, when I thought I was just texting Elle’s owner. She seemed friendly.”

It’s quiet for a moment until Namjoon can’t fight the guilt anymore. “I’m...she probably is, Jimin. Good people make horrible decisions, sometimes.” He barely gets the words out without confessing all that he knows. He’s dying to, but he can’t. Something stops him, begging him to wait a little longer.

Nodding absentmindedly, Jimin sighs. “Elle loves her.” He stares burning holes through the countertop now. “She ran like a puppy once she saw her walking down the street. I think...she is a good person. So why…?”

He doesn’t need to finish his question, everybody is already thinking the same thing.

“Did she see you?” Taehyung wonders aloud, looking at his best friend with nothing but sweet concern.

“No, I was already in my car. But she...she texted me.” Jimin takes a moment before choking out the rest. “She thanked me for returning Elle. Said that she hoped it wasn’t too inconvenient for me.”

Once again, silence reigns in the apartment. It’s a rare occasion; these four walls are rarely quiet.

Hobi shuffles on his feet. “Have you thought about...you know…”

“What.”

He scratches the back of his neck. “Texting her back?”

Jimin finally looks up, focusing on Hobi. “Text her back? What would I even say? Why….why?”

Namjoon jumps in. “I think it might be good, Jimin. It may help you to get some closure? Just get to know her a bit better. Maybe you’ll find out why she made this choice in the first place.” What he doesn’t tell him is that he’s been meticulously checking the mail every day for any sign of Jolie’s letter. If she hasn’t written to him yet, maybe this is another way for his friend to get closure?

Jimin shakes his head. “I’m the last person she’ll want to talk to.”

“She doesn’t have to know that it’s you,” Jin chimes in.

“And besides,” Namjoon continues. “I think that maybe today was some sort of sign. She can’t turn away forever, you know? Fate will always find a way.”

What he was hoping might be uplifting instead has Jimin turning to look at him, some sort of cold fire flickering in his eyes before sputtering out. “I don’t want fate or whatever this is,” he holds up his thread, “to just exhaust her into finally coming back to me! Is it too much to ask that she actually wants to be with me?”

“I didn’t mean it like-”

Jimin rises from his seat, prepared to walk away. “I’m not you, Namjoon!” His voice echoes through the house. “I didn’t get the girl! She took one look at me and thought that it would be better to ruin my life than be a part of it!” Jimin’s chest rises and falls, his breath rattling with the threat of sobbing.

Jungkook keeps his arms wrapped around Jimin, planting him in place. He’s always known Jimin so well; he knew that he would try to run and hide at some point during this conversation, to lick his wounds in peace without having to hurt anyone else. They’ll take it, though. They’ll take all of the barbed words in exchange for some sort of breakthrough. For Jimin to feel something again.

Jimin shakes his head, angry at himself for the tears and sobs that try to break through. “I’m so tired of crying, Namjoon.”

Namjoon remains on the opposite side of the island, unable to come up with anything to say, other than, “I’m sorry.”

But it’s Jungkook who musters up the courage to speak next. He’s quiet, still practically laying on Jimin and knowing that he’ll get away with it. Resting his chin on his friend’s shoulder, he sighs.

“Jimin-ah,” he begins, “You’re right, this is exhausting. But don’t you think that maybe she’s just...scared? And don’t you think she wouldn’t be so afraid if she got to know you? The Jimin that we all know isn’t scary, but all she’s ever seen are the promotions and concerts and suddenly she’s been thrown into a world where the one person that’s supposed to be her’s belongs to the entire world.”

The icy exterior that Jimin had been clinging to melts a little, his chin dropping to his chest. Jungkook sees the encouraging glances from his hyungs, and continues.

“It’s harmless to text her a little bit. Just get to know her. Let her get to know you. You can wait, to tell you who you are. But if you quit now, you will always wonder what could have happened.” Jungkook squeezes Jimin’s shoulders a bit tighter. “Do yourself a favor, and let it hurt a little more now so you can feel better in the future.”

“Rip off the bandaid,” Taehyung mumbles.

Yoongi stares at the countertop as well. “We’ll be here to help you know what to say, if you need help. But just because she shut you out, doesn’t mean that you should return the favor.”

Jimin closes his eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply before letting it out. When he opens them again, the pain is still there. Like a splinter caught in his skin. Painful, but not unbearable. Not when he’s got more important tasks to attend to.

He looks up at Namjoon, his cheeks a little red from embarrassment due to his outburst. “I’m sorry, Joon. I didn’t mean to yell at you like that.”

Namjoon shakes his head, offering up a small smile. “I know. Don’t worry about it.”

At that moment the doorbell rings, everyone looking at each other with confused expressions. Jimin’s heart rate picks up, his imagination running while.

Did she see him? Does she somehow know what he’s planning to do? Is she angry and here to-

“Chicken!” Hobi shouts, bolting from the kitchen to the front door. Everyone dissolves into laughter, the uneasy tension from before dissolving a little.

Once Hobi returns with several boxes of chicken, explaining that he called for it just before entering the house, they turn back to the matter at hand.

Jimin stares down at his phone, wondering how on earth to begin. Jin coughs around his food before speaking.

“Just start with something that you have in common,” he suggests.

That common thread that is trying to no avail to bring them together.

Elle.

✂

Elle, I have come to learn, believes that she is above taking the bus. She must have gotten a hint of the high life last night with whoever she stayed with.

She’s currently poking her head out of my bag, which she immediately burrowed herself in upon finding boarding the bus. I smirk down at her, keeping my eyes averted from everyone else. It’s nice to have a little friend with me. It helps me ignore all of the people staring at me.

Or rather, my thread.

No one has dared to ask about it. Yet.

It should only take about twenty minutes to get to Itaewon. Hopefully that’s enough time for me to slip away before someone plucks up the courage to talk to me. If they approach, maybe Elle will hiss at them.

Judging by the way she’s nuzzled into my bag, I suppose that may be too much to wish for.

Riding the bus and watching the city slip past through the scratched windows has always been the strangest form of therapy for me. It’s crowded at times, loud and overall an awkward experience for many. However it’s often one of the places where I can just slip away. Dream with my eyes open as street shops and people drift into the rear view.

I’m just entering that dreamstate when I feel my phone vibrate. Slipping it out of my pocket and ignoring the whispers coming from a group of friends a couple of rows behind me, I glance at the new message.

It’s from the person that dropped Elle off, finally returning my message of gratitude.

UNK: It wasn’t inconvenient, don’t worry. If I’d had it my way, I would have hung out with Elle all day. 😸

I snort at the message, leveling Elle with a glare. “Sounds like you two are close.” Elle stares back up at me almost as though challenging me to do something about it. I roll my eyes. “You think you’re wrapped around their finger, huh? Watch and learn, princess.”

ME: Did you use the cat emoji bc of Elle or are you the kind of person that regularly uses cat emojis??

I wait with my phone in my hands, a smile tugging at the corners of my lips as I watch the person on the other side appear to be at a loss. Those three dots pop up for a moment before disappearing again.

It happens again and again, and I finally decide to put my phone away instead of watching them struggle to make up their mind. There’s only about ten minutes left of the trip, anyway.

Another five pass before my phone vibrates. Giving Elle a pointed look, I take a look at the response.

UNK: ...so what if I use cat emojis?

UNK: they’re there to be used, you know. Maybe you should quit ignoring them and give them a chance. 😿

“Ha!” It takes a moment before I remember that I should try my best to not appear like a crazy woman. “See?” I whisper madly. “They’re practically begging me to keep chatting.”

ME: Wow.

ME: I feel like you took that very personally. Elle didn’t tell me that you’d be like this.

There’s another stop, a few people getting off but many more getting on. Most of them sit down without sparing me a glance. Only when they’ve all settled down and gotten lost in their conversations or phones do I allow myself to relax.

UNK: are you the kind of person that talks to their cat??

I give a startled chuckle, delighting in the distraction this conversation is allowing me. Before I can fire off a response, another text comes through, making me stifle a laugh.

UNK: 😼

Maybe it’s the silly conversation, or the fact that Elle has gotten to a position where she can rub her head against my leg. Maybe it’s the view outside, the late afternoon sun pouring down on the people outside, and me, watching the world through the bus window.

For the first time that I can remember since I cut my thread, life seems a bit more manageable.

I feel like I can breathe.

✂

Jimin can’t breathe.

Not with the way all of the members have crowded around him on the couch, Jin still munching on some chicken while he peers over Jimin’s shoulder.

“I liked that last text. It was a nice touch,” Yoongi croons from Jimin’s side. “Gotta stick to a theme.”

The others grunt in agreement, hardly noticing the absolute strangeness of the situation. Taehyung slings his arm around Jimin on the other side, never once looking away from Jimin’s phone screen. He hums to himself while they wait for those fated three dots to appear.

Jungkook’s neck is about to break from the way he’s craning it, sitting on the floor before Taehyung’s legs. It’s a miracle that he can see anything at all.

“Is she texting yet?” He asks, hissing as he rubs a sore spot on his neck. He gives up trying to see what’s going on, facing forward again. Hobi, sitting beside Taehyung, automatically reaches down and begins massaging the younger’s neck.

“No, not yet,” Hobi sighs. “I wonder what - OH SHE’S TEXTING!”

Everyone presses in closer to Jimin, the boy in question gritting his teeth with anticipation. “Do you think she suspects? Have I been too obvious?”

Jin produces another chicken leg from somewhere, offering a bite to Namjoon who doesn’t hesitate to chow down. “No, she doesn’t. You’ve been totally aloof.”

“Yeah, you’re good,” Namjoon says around his food.

Together, the seven of them stare at those three dots rippling across the screen. When they disappear for a moment, everyone groans. It doesn’t take long before they reappear, and suddenly a message appears.

“What does it say?!” Jungkook scrambles to his knees, struggling to get a good view.

Jimin groans, shouldering his way forward until he’s leaning in front of everyone. “Shh, let me actually read it.”

Jolie (Elle): Haha, touché. I feel a little weird texting an unknown number...do you have a name I could save you under? Or should I just settle for a cat emoji?

“...what do I do?” Jimin turns to face the others, a flicker of panic painting his features. “I can’t tell her that it’s actually me...she’ll quit talking to me!”

Yoongi shrugs, completely unbothered. “Just give her a fake name. Like, Jaemin or something. Close enough.”

“Ha! Yeah, do Jaemin. Reminds me of James Corden trying to say your name,” Jungkook cackles.

Jimin looks at the other members with big eyes, waiting for some other offer. Something better. Taehyung pats his shoulder.

“I know you hate lying but...I don’t think you have much of a choice.”

Sighing, Jimin types in a response. He holds up the phone for everyone to see, waiting for their grunts of approval before hitting send. A knock on the door has everyone except for Jin turning their heads.

“Don’t tell me you ordered something else,” Namjoon gripes. Jin just chuckles quietly, reappearing a few moments later with an armful of boxes. Jimin recognizes them immediately: it looks like an assortment of churros and other treats.

“Hyung,” Jungkook watches the procession with wide eyes. “What’s this?”

“Would you go grab the rest?” Jin asks instead of answering. Jungkook leaps to his feet, bounding toward the door where more treats await. His shouts of excitement drift back to the boys.

When everyone gives Jin an appalled look, he just shrugs his shoulders. “What? I figured that we’re going to be here for a while. Might as well get comfortable.”

✂

UNK: No, I won’t make you stoop so low as to use a cat emoji. Park Jaemin should work fine.

I nearly stumble down the steps of the bus as I make the mistake of pulling my phone out to see the latest response. Once Elle and I have made it safely to the sidewalk, I proceed to stare at my phone in utter horror.

Rereading that name again and again until I’m sure that I’m reading it correctly.

Why did it have to be such a similar name?

There’s a slight tremor to my hands as I try to come up with something to say. Saving the number, I take a deep breath. Elle watches me from the safety of my bag, mewling softly.

“Gimme a sec,” I sigh. “Is this some sort of cruel joke?” My mind is spinning too quickly to think clearly, so I pocket the infernal device and take a moment to orient myself. Heading down the street, I wait until I’ve made it a block before attempting to form a reply.

It would appear that my new friend is a little impatient. By the time I stop on the corner, there’s already another text waiting for me. The new contact name has me gritting my teeth, but I push past the initial shock that rocks me.

Park Jaemin 🙀: Unless you don’t like that name? I could always choose a different one.

“He’s a little...weird.” I glance down at Elle, who seems inclined to agree with me. “But nice, I think.” Mustering up all of my courage, I punch out a reply and send it before I can think twice about it.

ME: That’s fine. Jaemin it is. I just didn’t realize you were a guy? Elle always seemed wary of guys.

I set off down the street, finding it a bit different in the daylight than it was at night. That, and this time I’m not a hyperventilating mess. It doesn’t take long before I’m turning down an alley that I realize I’ve been seeing in my dreams lately, heading toward the tell-tale gray apartment with the warehouse attached to it.

There’s another text notification reaching my ears, but I ignore it for the moment. Knocking hard on the door, I wait to hear footsteps.

It takes a couple of attempts before a distant voice shouts, “Coming!” A few seconds later, the door is cracked open to reveal a disgruntled Christina.

She gives me a long look, recognition sparking in her eyes even as she looks entirely unimpressed by me. She eyes Elle, who stares right back at her.

“You know I don’t do refunds, right?”

There’s another text coming through, but I ignore it again. Instead I plaster on my best smile, which Christina sees right through.

“I know. That’s not why I’m here.” Glancing up and down the alley, I rub at my arms. Fighting off the sudden chill. “Mind if I come in?”

Previous - Next

main masterlist

taglist is open! let me know, or click on the link in the series m.list or navigation!

taglist: @baepsaetay @dreamcatcherjiah @eusticenatalie @kookie-vuitton @thecaffeinatedscribbles @moon-write @fangirl125reader @heishichoulevi @knjkitten @sacha-cff @vik7797 @hesmyphenominiall @onewoneman @preciouschimine​ @missseoulite​ @marianeamine​ @somewhereinthestarss​ @chubsjmin​ @daydreamerwestwood @010op10​ @4evahevah​ @mawwnsterr​ @hikka-light @biasnation​ @betysotelo18​ @shhhhsecwet​ @channiespup​

[tiffdawg]

Two Halves | A Javier Peña x Reader Oneshot

Gif: @bestintheparsec​

Pairing: Javier Peña x Reader (fem; no y/n)

Word Count: 2.1k

Rating: T | Warnings: A dash of angst but only to make the fluff sweeter. Alcohol. 

Request: Part of the 500 Celebration! @jigglemiwa requested 49 (You’re the best part of me) or 42 (You keep that photo of us in your wallet?) from this list with Javier Peña. I thought these were great prompts so I used both! Thank you for the request – this was so much fun to write!

A/N: This is so soft y’all. I was blushing while I wrote it. 

Read on AO3

My Masterlist

… . …

Two Halves

It was like any other night after a long day of work. You were at the usual bar a few blocks away from the embassy apartment complex with a warming glass of tequila cradled between your hands. Javier sat next to you, his discarded jacket thrown over the back of his barstool, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and tie hanging loose around his neck. He looked as tired and disheveled as you felt.

It was a quiet evening, both in the bar where a few other patrons milled about, nursing drinks and chatting idly with whoever would listen, and between you and your partner. Or, former partner. That was what made that night unique: it was your last night together in Bogotá.

Now that the Cali Cartel had folded in on itself, the DEA’s presence in Colombia was downsizing and most attachés were transferring elsewhere. You had a lucrative offer for a position in Mexico. And yet, you were wavering as an inexplicable bout of indecision kept you from making a final call about your future. You’d thought that the last day of work would bring some sense of closure or light a fire under you that would make your decision easier. But it hadn’t. Even then, as you traced the rim of your glass, you couldn’t make up your mind. You were much too busy stealing glances at the man sitting next to you.

As for Javier Peña, his job was done, and he was going home. When he asked you to grab a drink with him that night, you’d expected he would be in a bit of a celebratory spirit. Instead, he was in one of his introspective moods, preferring to sit quietly next to you as he lost himself in his own mind. You doubted he’d ever admit it, but you knew he preferred to have someone by his side, even in moments like that. And if you were being honest with yourself, so did you – especially if it was him.

So, the two of you fell into an old, familiar silence broken only by a deep baritone crooning in Spanish that crackled softy through an old radio behind the bar. You weren’t paying close enough attention to make out the lyrics but if you had to guess, he was probably singing about love. They always were. 

Javier sighed at the last sip of tequila in his glass before downing it. As if he’d been waiting for his cue, the bartender appeared and asked if he wanted another round. Javier turned to you with a raised brow.

You finished off the last of your drink and set your empty glass next to his. You’d had a couple of drinks over as many hours. You could get away with one more. “Why not?” 

While the bartender made your drinks, you watched Javier as he leaned against the counter, head held in one hand as he traced the veins of the wood with the pad of his finger. He’d been contemplating something the entire night and had yet to work out a solution to his problem. And it weighed heavily on his mind. You couldn’t figure out what was bothering him so much. His job was over. That heavy burden he’d been carrying around for years had been lifted from his shoulders and he was free from the DEA. Even if he’d never said it out loud before, you knew that was what he wanted deep down. He should’ve been happy.

Just as you opened your mouth to ask him what was wrong, a pair of drinks were placed in front you. You thanked the bartender and pulled your glass toward you. As always, Javier reached for his wallet to pay the tab. And, as always, you tried to stop him.

“Javi, you don’t–” 

“I want to,” he insisted, cutting you off before you could protest, “It’s our last night out together, cariño.”

Your cheeks warmed at his favorite name for you. It never seemed to lose its effect on you. Of course, you would’ve preferred it if he meant its true sentiment. And while you didn’t want to admit to yourself that it was the last night you would spend with him, he was finally talking, so you tried to make light of the situation. “Can you believe that? That it’s all over?”

He only shook his head, his face pinching in a slight scowl, as he counted out the correct payment and a generous tip. As he sorted through his cash, something fell from between two crisp bills. You recognized it immediately: it was a photo strip from an old camera booth. The film was faded and bent, well-worn and maybe even well loved. As if It had been hidden away in his wallet for a while, but repeatedly handled. In fact, you could’ve guessed just how long he’d been carrying it around down to the day.

“You keep those photos of us in your wallet?” you asked, your voice not quite hiding your disbelief, as you gently picked up the photo strip. It was a lost memory from one drunken night out when the two of you were trying to unwind after a particularly bad day. In each of the two frames, the two of you were grinning. First, happily at the camera – or, at least, in the general direction of the camera – and then at each other. 

“I just– I like to look at it sometimes. When, you know–” Javier stumbled, clearly caught off guard. “It’s stupid.” 

“No, it’s not,” you assured. You tore your eyes from your smiling faces in the photos to look at him, silently pleading for him to continue with a careful hand on his arm.

He faltered for a moment, his mouth opening and closing a few times before he finally spoke. “It helps when you’re not around. I don’t know what I’m going to do without you keeping me in line all the time. Sometimes I look at you and I– I know what I need to do.” He finally looked at you, his dark eyes shining with some new emotion. “You make me want to be better. Hell, you’re the best part of me.” 

“Javi,” you sighed as you blinked away the unwanted tears blurring your vision. 

“I know I shouldn’t say that–”

“No. No, you don’t understand.” The two of you regarded each other for a drawn-out breath. He watched you carefully, waiting for you to explain, as you racked your brain for the right words. Coming up short, you swallowed hard and tried a different approach. “Can I show you something?”

His brows furrowed adorably at you and you resisted the urge to laugh. Reaching for your purse, you took your own wallet and shuffled through the crumpled bills until you found what you were searching for.

You gingerly set the last two frames of the photo strip on the counter, aligning the torn edge perfectly with Javier’s photos to complete the picture. “I like to keep you close too,” you said softly. “Sometimes I– I need you.” 

Javier’s expression shifted into some mix of shock and awe that looked rather foreign on him as he considered your statement and the completed photo strip laid out before him. In the back of your mind, you’d always wondered if the torn edge on yours matched with a second set of photos. Together, the four frames told the story of one stolen moment as it unfolded between the two of you. In an almost reverent gesture, he picked up your half and ran his thumb over the last frame. It was a blurry black and white photo of him cradling your face as he pressed his lips to yours.

“I kissed you?” he asked breathlessly.

“Apparently,” you said with a nervous laugh that was more of a sigh. “Don’t feel bad. We’d had a few too many that night. I don’t remember it either.”

“I wish I did,” he mumbled. When he faced you again, he almost looked hurt. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was scared,” you answered with a shrug. “I didn’t know if you remembered. And if you did, you never said anything about it, so I thought you might’ve wanted to forget.”

“Cariño, I don’t think you understand,” he sighed, running a hand over his mouth as he placed your half under his again before turning his body toward yours. “I’ve been sitting here all night trying to figure out how to tell you that I love you.”

The chill that ran down your spine was followed by the sweetest warmth spreading from your chest throughout your body. And the tiniest oh escaped past your parted lips at his confession. “I think you just did.”

“I guess so,” he beamed as a look of relief washed over him. “I love you,” he said easily.

“I love you too, Javier,” you promised, finally speaking those words aloud to him you’d felt in your heart for so long.

You both moved at the same instant, leaning in to crash your lips together in a long-awaited second kiss. One neither of you would forget. As his hands cupped your face to hold you near, your lips came together and pulled apart again and again, you smiled into his kiss at the thought that the two of you must’ve looked just as you did in that photo you cherished so much.

“What?” he asked, leaning away just enough to look at you.

“Nothing. I’m just really happy,” you said wetly. You’d wanted that – wanted him – for so long. You’d all but resigned yourself to the idea that the photo of a kiss you didn’t remember was the closest you’d ever get to the real thing. But the real thing was so much better than you ever could’ve imagined. “I’m always happy when I’m with you.”

“I know what you mean.” When he spoke next, his tone shifted to something more serious. “Wherever you go next, I’ll follow.” Javier knew about your job offer. You’d attempted to solicit his advice about it on numerous occasions. Only then did his reluctance to help you make sense. “I just want to be with you, mi amor.”

You knew he was sincere. You heard it in his steady voice. Saw it in his determined eyes. And felt it in your heart. There would be no separating the two of you now. As you took in the tired lines of his handsome face, you knew exactly what you wanted the future to look like for the both of you. All of your doubt and indecision faded away as you finally allowed yourself to ask for what you wanted most. 

“I want out,” you admitted with an exhausted exhalation. “I don’t want to go to Mexico or anywhere else they might try to send me. I want to go home, Javi. I want to go home with you.”

Without another word, he picked up the two halves of the photo strip and tucked them both safely in his wallet. For some reason, you doubted you would get yours back. Then he stood and held out a hand to you. “Let’s get out of here.”

“That’s not what I meant,” you teased, rolling your eyes even as you slipped your hand into his.

“I know what you meant,” he scoffed as he led you out of the bar and toward. “We have plans to make. Together.”

“I like the sound of that,” you said around a smile as you leaned into his side.

“Although,” Javier drawled as he stopped walking and pulled you into him with two strong hands on your hips, “We definitely need to make up for lost time.” He nuzzled his nose against yours before capturing your bottom lip between his plush ones. It was a kiss so soft and slow it made you dizzy. He was intoxicating in a whole new way. Better than the finest alcohol. And you’d happily drink him in as long as you could.

“I think we can multitask,” you quipped, in between heated kisses. He hummed his agreement but made no move to part from you. The two of you stayed like that for a long time, kissing under the golden beam of a streetlight on a quiet road in Bogotá. It would’ve made for a lovely photograph.

In the end, you never got your half of the photo back from him. But it didn’t matter. Years later, that photo strip sat framed on the nightstand next to your shared bed with a single piece of clear tape forever mending the two halves.

... . ...

Thank you for reading!

Forever Tags: @leo-moon @readsalot73 @frietiemeloen @huliabitch @jerusomeeno @benedrylcumbersnatch @b0n-chann @scapricciatello @liadamerondjarin

[autistic-beshelar]

'm loving everyone venting about Molly! Thanks! And I want to ask you how you imagined the finale was gonna be? I have this whole fanfic in my head about Molly realising he had a four leaf clover stuck in his hair and upon noticing it he would give it to Yasha. Then the M9 would deal with Trent and Molly would finally know how terrible of a person the dude was. And then the M9 would introduce Molly to everyone else they met and visit every place they left better than they found it.

that's so sweet!

it's weird, because while like every other molly fan, i've had thoughts on his resurrection and a fic series i'm working on, but i'd never really... thought about the end of the campaign, or what it might be like?

(ETA this ended up so long im so sorry i have a lot to say apparently and this isn't even all of it)

my biggest and most important thing: they are a family. they belong together. maybe they'll go off on their own for a while, or stay with their families, but the nein belong together.

for fjord... he spent so long trying to be someone else, and while he's learning how to be his own person now, he deserves closure on that part of himself. he deserves a last conversation with vandren, and then to move on, to explore new places, to find new goals for himself. there is so much for him now, the open sea with so much life and promise. he buys a ship, a new ship, all his own, not one borrowed or stolen from another, and jester paints its name, decorates its quarters, makes it a home. he wrangles the nein (yes, even veth, yes, even essek) into joining him, and they set sail, all nine of them, the way it couldn't be the first time. he shows molly the ropes, teaches essek how to navigate, and watches his crew, his friends, his family, learning from him, placing so much trust in him, letting him guide them, and sees how truly happy they are to be here with him. usually, the crew is him, jester, beau, and often molly and yasha, but sometimes he will leave for a time, entrusting the boat to orly. sailing isn't all he has now, there is more to see, to do, there are things for him on land now too, but the sea will always be home to him.

for jester... she deserves her happy fairytale ending. i think for a while she stays with her family, seeing her parents happily together, finally properly introducing her boyfriend, and just spending time with her mum in a way that she didn't get to so much when she was young. and then i think she travels, just for the sake of exploring, with no defined goal other than to sow the seeds of joy and chaos everywhere she walks. and as she travels, she begins to write. stories were homes to her as a child, and they're homes even now, for someone with such a powerful imagination. she writes of her adventures, of her friends, she writes of mystical and fantastical things, half of them real. she writes and writes, words and illustrations filling so many books, she gives them to beau, to yasha, passes them off as silly little things, as though they aren't brilliant works of art. all of the nein read her stories - yasha out loud to molly as she plays with his hair, caduceus and calliope in the quiet of their garden, caleb and essek by the light of their bedside table. and in time the stories reach others, scattered journals are copied and bound into books, and one day jester wanders a quiet, nameless town, and in the window of a bookshop she's never seen, embossed on the cover of a novel, there is a brilliant green door.

for caleb... oh man, he is a teacher. that is so perfect for him, and i've been thinking about it ever since his talk with luc. i think there's something so powerful about being the person he deserved when he was younger, about stepping into that position of power and authority and being so kind with it. he's so passionate about magic, and i think it's beautiful to see him come so far - from someone burned and traumatised and so convinced he was irredeemable, to someone who can take comfort in soft things, someone who some days, almost, almost believes he can be good. i think out of everyone, except perhaps veth, he stays home the most. he still adventures with the nein of course, and if there is ever a whisper of artefacts or hidden knowledge or some expedition or other, the nein are with him in an instant to investigate it. but more often than not he is home, making the empire a better place, keeping the fire warm for them.

for veth... i want her to learn that she is enough as she is. i want her to learn that she doesn't have to choose between wife, adventurer, mother. she is all of these things. i want her to accept that her transformation was not a return to her old self but becoming someone new. i think she goes home, as she promised, and i do think she stays there for a long while, a few years perhaps, making up for lost time. and she'll pretend that she's fine with that life, with staying home, with being a wife and a mother. but that isn't all she is, and eventually, with yeza's help, with the nein's help, she will accept that. she'll no longer see it as two lives, two identities. she'll be able to kill fearsome beasts and explore strange new lands with her friends without guilt or fear, and at the end of the day she'll go home and regale her husband and son with extraordinary tales of her and her friends' heroics (that may or may not be exaggerated).

for yasha... i want her to be happy and loved. she's come SO far, from someone running from her past, drowning in guilt and so unsure of herself, to someone strong and bold. i love that ashley said she would do little odd jobs - i think she would do that, go around helping people as they explore. like most of the others, i don't think she would truly settle down. i like to imagine she does have a house somewhere - maybe inspired by the clays, she has a home somewhere green, surrounded by flowers, somewhere quiet and calm and peaceful. a little cottage maybe, for her and beau, just somewhere to return to and feel safe, somewhere she can rest. but i think most of her time would be spent travelling, seeing all the wonderful beautiful things the world has to offer, being with her friends who love her for exactly who she is, who showed her that she was someone worthy of being loved, who taught her that it's possible for her to love herself.

for caduceus... i think, for a time, he rests. he's tired. not done, far from done, but tired. i think he stays with his family at the grove, tending to all the things that are now so vibrant and alive, feeling the walls he was so sure would crumble. but after a time, he would feel that he is supposed to leave. the grove is wonderful, and will always be his home, somewhere he will always return to, and i think throughout his life - throughout the nein's life, and of course they will come to rest there, after everything - he will come home, to tend to the garden, to watch over the temple while his siblings roam. i think he travels, too, but not so much to adventure. after everything he's been through i think he deserves some peace, and quiet. he travels all the lonely winding roads, all the quiet humming spaces, sees all the life in all the hidden corners. while several members of the nein travel with him, it's yasha that walks with him the most, happy to go at his pace, eager to share in that peace and wonder.

for molly... there is so much for him now. he is no longer covered in eyes, no longer has that weight on him, even if he does hold memories of it, in darker moments. he is him but brand new, able to forge himself into whoever he wants to be, and the nein give him so much space and so much time for that. i think he stays with the clays for a little while - while the others deal with trent, yasha, so so scared to lose him again, places all her trust in caduceus to take care of him. and when they return (to find him with freshly cut hair the same colours as his coat, and a particularly proud looking clarabelle), they just spend time with him, all the time they missed and more. fjord tells him of their journey, jester showing him her journal, giving him meaning for it all, and all the time yasha holds his hand, unwilling to ever let him go. it's hard, being gone for so long, and while he is so, so (embarrassingly) proud of his friends for all that they've gone through, and how much they've grown, it's also glaringly obvious that he can't keep up. he almost has it in mind to leave - he doesn't want to hold them back, and he can't help but wonder if he's really the molly they want - it's hard to live up to a memory, after all. and there is so much he's missed. they tell him he's a moron, obviously. he is their friend, and there is nothing they won't do for friends, and waiting, staying, is such a small thing to ask. beau trains him, at his insistence - she thinks it's a joke at first, tells him that she'd be a terrible teacher, just as she was a terrible student. she's wrong, of course, and molly grows stronger by the day. he has so many adventures with them, sailing the seas on fjord's ship, sowing chaos with jester, fighting side by side with beau. there is not a single day that he isn't with his friends, yasha most of all. they are with him through everything, though good days, so many good days, and through bad ones too. molly has so much time - time the nein have given him, as he once gave to them - to live, to love, to wander, to form new memories and experiences. to be everything he never had the chance to the first time, and so much more.

for beau... she is so, so scared at first. they saved the world. they stopped trent. they've done... everything they've set out to do. what's left? what's keeping them together? when molly tries to run it reminds her so much of how she felt before, how she thought to run, to leave them before they could leave her. he returns the favour, reminds her that they are family, reminds her that she has worth, and the nein want her to stay, that they keep her, just as they kept him. (she almost believes him, and definitely doesn't cry). she does so many things - she goes home with yasha once in a while, somewhere tranquil, somewhere to study and research, she travels with caduceus, learning to appreciate a slower pace and all the quiet contemplation and companionship it can offer, she travels with fjord, his first mate, his best mate, allowing someone she trusts to take the helm and lead her on adventures. and she studies - long gone are the days of pretending to turn her nose up at books - she is one of professor widogast's best (and most irritating) students, learning magic not to weave it herself but just to understand it, just learning for the sake of learning. when she confronts her father, fjord and caleb are there as they should be - fjord to talk, to use his words and his charm to help, caleb in quiet solidarity, a hand on her shoulder, just standing with her as she tears down her mentor, her abuser, and comes out stronger for it, just as she had been there for him. finally, she can put that behind her, and she stays with the soul, as their greatest expositor (though maybe one who never does their paperwork), rooting out corruption, seeking the truth, exploring new horizons.

for essek... he spends a long time waiting for the past to catch up to him. it doesn't. it already has, in a way, if only in his own mind, the once unfamiliar guilt that weighs heavily on his shoulders. it never goes away, not entirely, but time heals, and so does the presence of the rest of the nein, always in his life, for as long as they can be. though he and caleb have different goals, they overlap so neatly, and though essek has a place in his own homeland, he spends far, far more time living with caleb. he continues with his research, caleb and beau poring over his notes, sharing his excitement and passion. he doesn't go on adventures near as much as the others, preferring to stay home, but he visits them, in all their different homes scattered across the land - jester in nicodranas, the clays at the blooming grove, veth and her family on the outskirts of zadash, beau and yasha's cottage in a little forest near felderwin. he has homes scattered across the land, so many places he is always welcome, and while guilt never entirely leaves, nor does the knowledge that one day, of course, all this will end, he finds peace.

i guess the reason i've never thought about the campaign ending is because for me.. it doesn't, not really. the mighty nein are family, chosen family. they stay together, they find homes in each other, and they leave every place better than they found it.

[pollylynn]

Title: A Trembling Of  WC: 1800

“How’s that for love?”  — Tildy Maguire, For Better or Worse (6 x 23) 

He loves her and he fears her. These are the anchoring points of their relationship—the anchoring points of his whole world, these days, and three words from a city employee should not be able to pry them up and set the two of them adrift. Proof of divorce? Nothing in this or any other universe should be able to pry them up and set the two of them adrift, and yet here they are. He loves her no less—he could never love her any less—but right now, he fears for her, and that is a rip in the very fabric of reality. But how can he do otherwise? 

Here she is, silent in the back of the cab.  She has not said—will not say—one word as they lurch their way through the horrors of late afternoon traffic in Manhattan, and he’d like to think it’s the inadequate privacy offered by the plexiglass barrier that has sealed her lips. He’d like to believe that she’s so enchanted by the memory of the days when Paul Sorvino or Joe Torre or Eartha Kitt reminded New York taxi passengers to buckle up, take their belongings, get a receipt before exiting the back seat, she has nothing to say about the present. He’d like to believe that three words from a city employee have not fundamentally altered her lovable, fear-inspiring self, and yet . . . 

Here she is, finally home, and yet there is nothing like relief here. There is nothing like relief anywhere in sight. Here she is with her head in her hands, and they’re telling his mother, they’re telling his daughter, because they kind of have to tell them. They very probably are kind of going to have to tell everyone, but this tiny test balloon at him is so awful. 

His mother—she of the child-producing one-night stand with a probable sociopath is volubly incredulous: Who is Rogan O’Leary? His daughter—she of the lease with the bee-counting, continent-hopping, passport-losing peace disturbing Pi is volubly appalled: And you married him? He of an untold number of colossal mistakes in the personal and professional realms, in the public eye and in private, is damnably smug: And here I thought you were a one and done kind of girl.

He regrets it the instant it’s out of his mouth. He bounces around the tattered remnants of reality. He goes back in time and regrets it, except there is a moment, there is an instant, there is the merest spark of absolute fury behind her eyes, and he feels the world come right. He feels reality knitting itself back up again. He feels himself quaking in his bespoke boots, secure in the knowledge that she will make him pay, and he is fine with that. He is absolutely fine.  

He loves her and he fears her, these are the anchors of his entire world, gloriously restored, and that is just as it should be. 

*****************************

He loves her and he fears her and he loves her just that little bit more when everything fearsome about her is directed at someone else. Oh, how he loves being able to watch the fireworks from minimum safe distance, so he’s excited when she sets off for Willow Creek. He’s racked with guilt and uncertainty, too, because she’s going alone and he worries that it’s self-flagellation—that it’s an occasion to be afraid for her—but ultimately, he’s excited. 

She is determined when she leaves. She has her keys clutched in her fist and she won’t take an overnight bag. 

“Not even a toothbrush?” He turns up the innocence. It’s a calculated risk. It’s more fuel for the fire that burning in her, fierce and bright now, and it works.

“Not. Even. A toothbrush.” She enunciates each and every letter. She grabs the front of his shirt with her free hand and reels him in until they’re sharing air molecules. “Won’t need it.”

And then she’s gone, but not gone. 

She is on the other end of the phone as soon as she has hunted down her soon-but-not-soon-enough-to-be ex. She is fierce, roaring as she rails against the stupidity of the quest he’s sent her on. 

“Like he’s the damned Wizard of Oz,” she snarls.

“More like the Wizard of Id,” he quips. He’s thinking about being eighteen and all primitive instinct. He’s thinking about drunken nights on the strip and impulse weddings. He’s not really thinking, and it’s fuel for the fire. He swears she’s scorched his ear, she’s scorched the whole side of his brain closest to the phone, so maybe that’s a little too much fuel. 

Except he thinks that might be what sustains her through the abduction of Rogan, through the indifference and grudging pity of the local constabulary. He tells himself on his own frantic drive up to Willow Creek that he’s managed to make her spitting mad enough that she’s not sitting there, alone, with her head in her hands. 

It’s true. It’s mostly true that she’s down to embers when he gets there, but there’s more than enough Logan-related fury to go around. There’s coma wife and the sheer madness of digging through his pornographic electronic mash notes. There are bikers and strippers and a murderous mob boss. There is an entire Logan-based mad, mad, mad, mad world and she is definitely mad about it. 

She is quick thinking and—other than a few slightly moist moments about the dress—she is laser focused on getting this done. She is mean to Logan, and after the whole Man Parts contretemps, that is a delight and a turn on and the world turning beautifully on its axis precisely as it should turn. 

She is a warrior goddess, hell bent on marrying him—him—and he is blown away by that honor and privilege.

He loves her. He fears her. He’s going to marry her. 

*********************

He loves her. He just loves her. It’s hard for them to part ways in stupid Willow Creek, but there’s really nothing for it. She has her car, and he has his. He has to get to the city. He has to start the paperwork on its warp speed journey through the system, and she has to get to the Hamptons to figure out what she’s going to wear. 

“I’m all for nothing at—“ 

She cuts that off with a twist of his ear that takes him right back to the beginning—right back to when she was Our Lady of Smug, patron saint of the One and Done Girl—and that makes it really hard to part ways, because he would love to get in some last-minute fear and trembling in one back seat or the other before she makes an honest man of him. He really would but there’s just no time. He has to settle for backing her up hard against the driver’s side door of her car and kissing the life out of her. He has to settle for the same as she backs him up hard against the passenger side door of his car where it’s pulled up alongside hers. They have to settle for peeling their bodies apart, breathless, eager, and reluctant, all at once. 

“Be safe,” she breathes, her forehead pressed against his. “Hurry, but be safe.” 

“You, too.” He steals one last kiss, then hurries around the hood to slide behind the wheel, to get on with it. 

He’s not three miles down the road when his phone rings through the car’s bluetooth. He feels an eager grin spread across his face as he thumbs the button. “Miss me already?” 

“No,” she retorts immediately, adamantly. “Yes,” she admits slowly, reluctantly. “Shut up,” she orders, shooting an arrow of fear right through his heart, though it softens—it downright melts—when she adds, “Keep me company.” 

He does. He keeps her company, though there’s not a lot of heavy lifting involved. She wants to talk—a positivity rarity for her—and other than her, there’s little he loves more in this stitched-up, much-mended reality than to listen when the mood strikes her. So he listens as she wanders far and wide, as she roams through the month or so of Rogan, and when the time is right, he is going to have so many follow-up questions about where Eddie Vedder’s jean jacket wound up and exactly how far she can chuck a hoagie while running down the strip full tilt. 

It’s not all fun and games, though. How could it be? But it’s okay. He loves her. He loves her, and when it comes to the place where this was always leading, he’s there. He’s on the other end of the phone. He’s listening. 

“I was married then. When my mom died.” Her voice is even. It’s controlled, though he can hear her heaving a shaky sigh. “I told her the whole saga.” Another shaky sigh.”Almost the whole saga with Rogan. We laughed about it.” There’s a silence long enough that he’s worried the call has dropped, but her voice fills up the speakers again. “I feel like I have to . . . confess to her or something. Give her a chance to say I told you so. I feel like I owe her that.” 

It’s a heartsore place for things to land. He doesn’t have a joke or anything gallant locked and loaded, but that doesn’t feel right anyway. He’d tear another hole in the fabric of reality if he could. He’d give her closure. He will give her closure if he can—a trip to her mom’s grave with her hand in his, a letter written and burned, its ashes scattered on the wind, whatever she wants, he’ll do. 

“I’m okay, Castle,” she says quietly, she says knowing he was wondering. “Really.” 

“I know you are,” he says, and it’s true. “I’m glad you are.” 

That’s true, too, in the most comprehensive sense. He is glad she’s okay. He is glad of whoever, whatever, however she is in any given moment.  

He hears the road beneath his own tires, the road beneath hers. She stays on the line, though she is quiet now and a little sad. She wants things he can’t give her—he hasn’t yet devised a way to give her—and that’s a little maddening. But she is more than okay, and he is more than okay with that. She is fierce and fear-inducing and lonely for her mom and a little bit raw right now.

He loves her and he fears her. He has the twin anchors for his whole world on the other end of the line. That’s as it should be.

A/N: A group of finches is called a trembling. That is a thing. This is not a thing. It is an uneven atrocity, not a thing. 

images via homeofthenutty

[theavengerfairy]

One Step Closer - Chapter 6

Previously known as “Gravity”

He had a lot on his mind. It wasn't his expression that gave Callum away; rather, it was his lack thereof. His warm glow had not once wavered in the face of adversity since Anora met him, but now as they walked along with the moon as their guide, her watchful eye observed it flickering dangerously, violent gusts of restless thoughts threatening to snuff out the light at its source. When he believed no wandering gazes were upon him, the young prince would risk a glance at Rayla, first at her face and then at the pocket in which the coin was tucked safely away. Whenever his attention shifted to the latter, fragments of icy bitterness crystallized in his eyes where warm kindness and tender concern had dwelled not much earlier. Between his somber aura and the way he trudged forward with his back bent and his shoulders stooped, one might assume the weight of the world rested upon him, and it was a sight that Anora, for one, could not stand.

"It isn't much farther. We should have the element of surprise, but it would be best not to take any chances. Callum, come up here with me, would you? I know you're inexperienced, but you are our best offense against another mage so we need you front and center. Rayla, bring up the rear please and keep alert for any surprises from behind. Maddie-"

"Yeah yeah, I'm in the middle with the baby dragon." Maddie cut in with an offhanded wave, her other hand already scrounging through her bag in search of her wristbow.

Rayla's nose wrinkled and her lips puckered ever so slightly as she stared hard at Anora, obviously not convinced the rather out-of-the-blue request was what it appeared to be on the surface. Nevertheless, she receded to the back of the group without protest, blades already drawn and hanging at her sides in wait. Meanwhile Callum hurried forward, his head sinking even lower between his shoulders, and fell into stride with Anora, his face averted as though he could hide from her what she had already seen.

"Something's troubling you, Callum."

Callum's fingers picked nervously at the strap of his backpack. "I'm worried about Ez."

"That's not all though, now is it?"

Were all Oceancry elves this insanely perceptive or was he just that terrible at being subtle? It didn't truly matter either way; however it had happened, Callum was caught. Compelled by guilt, he began to crane his neck to check on Rayla yet again, but she had hardly manifested as an abstract blur in his peripheral before Anora beckoned his attention back to her with a crisp yet kindly staccato.

"Ah ah ah, not a good idea; she's still trying to decide whether or not I'm up to something. You flash those big, telltale green eyes at her and we're both done for."

Callum knew she was right of course; it was honestly a miracle Rayla hadn't figured him out already. A cluttered, jumbled mind was a luxury he could not afford; he needed to have his wits about him should their encounter with Castel go south. And yet, no matter how hard he struggled to seize hold of just one of the many intertwining threads of his thoughts, the strand would swiftly slip from his grasp again and rejoin its brethren as they continued to weave and knot themselves into an even tighter, more complicated tangle.

If not for Rayla's vigilant watch, Anora's hand, which twitched at her side, would've clasped Callum reassuringly by the shoulder in an instant. For now, however, she only hoped the extra softness with which she coated her voice proved capable of conveying the sincerity of her compassion, "You don't have to talk to me if you don't want to, Callum, but I would like to help somehow if I can."

He wanted to say something, to release into the open the festering bitterness that had slithered its way into his core when he wasn't looking and to allow the fresh air to cleanse away any gunk that lingered behind. To do so now, however, meant Anora witnessing that exorcism firsthand, and to expect anything less than her recoiling from him in response was preposterous. Was he to suffer in silence for the preservation of his pride or was he to expunge the darkness before it could fully take root, even at the cost of unpleasant potential consequences that might follow?

With a deep breath, the brisk, purifying night air filled his heavy, aching lungs, and when he exhaled, the pent-up words and feelings all came tumbling forth.

"Runaan isn't just someone dear to Rayla. He's an assassin, an assassin who still killed my stepdad and planned to kill my brother after seeing for himself that the egg of the Dragon Prince was safe. Calling off the mission would've meant some risk for him and his team, I get that, but he didn't even consider it. And what about Ez? Even if I could somehow look past everything that murderer has done, it isn't fair for me to expect the same from him; he's just a kid. And how do we know that Runaan won't just pick up where he left off and try to harm him again if he gets free? We don't! I can't put Ez in that kind of danger! When we found the coin earlier and I said I would help, I was thinking about Rayla and nothing else, but now...I don't want to hurt her, and I know I'm a horrible person for saying this, but would it really be so awful for him not to get out?"

His heart and lips stung raw. It was out, the toxic smog that had been corroding his heart and soul, and now all he could do was wait with apprehension's bony fingers already coiling around his throat before he could get another breath in. Why had he thought that this was a good idea?

"You're not a horrible person, Callum; just a real one who has endured a great deal of hardship and loss. You've had your world flipped upside down and that is bound to leave you with questions and frustrations and doubts. You cannot hate yourself for that."

"I still have to make a choice though, and that decision is going to affect more people than just me!"

"But your voice matters too." Anora's hands had found their way into one another's grip, hanging in front of her at waist level and squeezing each other tightly to keep them both locked in place as they could not be trusted to ignore the pleadings of her heart to seize the boy and wrap him in the hug he so desperately needed and deserved. "There is nothing wrong in asking 'What about me?' What about you, Callum?"

What about him? He was angry, hurt, grieving. He was torn between loyalties to different people who he all loved deeply and didn't want to hurt. As a prince, he had been taught from a young age to strive for noble character, but his heart yearned so strongly to be selfish just this once that it physically ached. He longed to live like the child he was once again, to have someone else make the hard choices while he carried on in the ignorant bliss of youth. It wasn't fair; it was all so much, too much.

Callum's eyes fixated on a stone sitting idly directly in his path, and before he could give it much thought, he swiftly drove his foot into it with considerable force. Unfortunately, the rock proved to be larger than it appeared and also securely nestled in the ground, so instead of taking flight, it sent an acute pain rippling throughout the prince's foot as he stumbled a little.

"That...was really stupid." he groaned, concealing his flushed face behind one of his open palms. "Why did I just do that?"

"Well, one of you was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. The question is whether it was you or the rock."

Anora's quip wasn't even that funny, but it proved just enough to return a smile to Callum's lips for a fleeting moment. Even when it vanished, Callum's frown wasn't quite as deep or pronounced as it had been before; it was a small improvement but an improvement nonetheless.

"Runaan staying in the coin won't bring my stepdad back, but to just let him go…" Callum wrapped his arms around himself, "My mind's all over the place. How am I supposed to do this? How am I supposed to figure out the best choice to make when at least one person I care about is always going to wind up hurt no matter what I decide?"

"Well, perhaps that's why you're stuck; you're trying to process everything all at once and it's overwhelming you." Anora mused as her eyes drifted up to the moon which peered down at them through gaps in the leafy canopy above their heads. "There are moments when it is best to look at the big picture, and then there are moments where one must focus on a single part of an issue...What can you tell me about Runaan?"

Callum blinked at her, somewhat taken aback by the seemingly sudden shift of attention. "What good is talking about him going to do?"

"Runaan is but a single piece at play, yet much of your turmoil ties back to him in some way, yes? While it may not bring you all the answers you seek, understanding him better might just grant you some clarity and closure that can aid your decision-making." Noticing a low-hanging branch that was about to smack Callum square in the face, Anora held it aside until he had passed and then let it fall back into place with a soft rustle. "You've already named him your stepfather's assassin as well as someone of significance to Rayla; what else can you figure out about him?"

"I don't know. I only encountered him once, and all he did was refuse to hear us out before fighting Rayla while she covered my brother and I's retreat with the egg. What else is there to say about him except that he is cruel and arrogant and close-minded?"

To Callum's surprise, Anora said nothing, but as he swiveled his head to look at her, a jolt shot through him when he found her staring him down, her lips curled into a little smirk and her brows arched ever so slightly. Her eyes reflected not condemnation but rather a blend of mild amusement and skepticism. She was calling bull on his shallow analysis, and what made the matter worse is that she knew that they both knew that she was right. If Callum truly saw things through so narrow a lens, the last place he would be was here, traveling with a party of elves and humans on a quest to return an abducted dragonling home even after all the pain the residents of Xadia and the human kingdoms had caused one another. He understood that the world and those who lived in it were not so superficial, and she was not going to let him get away with pretending otherwise.

He didn't want to think back to that night, his skin crawling and his throat constricting at the mere notion of it. Even so, he lifted his face towards the sky above with a sigh and allowed his mind to wander back, back the many miles they had come, back to the palace wall where those turquoise eyes had judged him as vermin without a second thought. However, the harsh gaze, that stern face, had slackened for an instant when Runaan first beheld the egg with his own eyes. Ever so briefly, the man beneath the warrior had been visible before being buried again, and as Callum studied those same eyes and remembered how that fierce voice had quivered as Rayla pleaded with Runaan once more, his breath caught in his throat.

"What is it, Callum?" Anora purred, her voice little more than a whisper as not to shatter the boy's delicate focus.

"He did hesitate actually; it wasn't for long but he did. I think...I think he was torn about what to do."

"Like you are now?" Anora let the question hang in the air for a moment before continuing, "Callum, do you think he might have been a bit afraid?"

"Afraid? But he's…" Callum stopped, his argument already crumbling apart on his tongue.

"What would he have to fear, Callum?" Anora prodded further, her head tilting slightly to one side as she waited patiently for him to mull everything over.

"He...he was the leader. He made the calls for the group. If he ordered something that was too risky and something bad happened, it would fall back on him-"

"What would fall back on him?"

"The responsibility and...and the guilt." Callum's expression suddenly soured again. "But how could he think that working together to bring Zym home was riskier than attacking a king with a palace full of soldiers who knew they were coming?"

"Perhaps it is not a question of greater risk but of unfamiliar risk. Runaan and the other assassins already understood and accepted the dangers of their mission. To abandon their original task in favor of working with humans to bring the Dragon Prince home would mean taking on new risks, some known but many unknown. If it had been only his well-being at stake, maybe he would have acted differently, but as the leader, he had to consider the welfare of the others also. I'm not saying that I completely agree with his choice, but I do understand it."

"I'm still not sure I do." Callum dragged his fingers rather roughly through his hair then let his arm drop limply back down to his side again. "Rayla knew the risks and cared about the other assassins too. How come she was still willing to take a chance and he wasn't?"

"Hope comes easier when one is young. When you live many years in a world that has been one way for a long time, it is easy to lose sight of how things could be and surrender oneself to what they are now. Like most, Runaan's perspective has been shaped by the longstanding bitterness between humans and Xadians, a resentment which neither side has been willing to try and lay to rest."

"You're not like that though."

Anora's gaze dropped to the ground, her kind features now marred by a rueful smile. "I wish that were true, but I fall short of such ideal virtue as well."

Callum made a face. "But you saved Maddie, even though she was a human…"

"You're right, and I have learned to trust a handful of other humans as well. That hardly means it comes naturally though. The me that you see now is the result of continuous effort on my part to grow despite my own deep-rooted fears and assumptions, and even now, after much hard work, some of those aversions have managed to endure."

"Is there really any chance of humans and elves ever truly reconciling then? I mean, you're one of the most open-minded elves I've met, so if you're still struggling that much, will Runaan or others like him ever be able to see things differently?" Callum's body felt very heavy all of a sudden, as though some phantom of the night had stolen past them and sapped his strength without him noticing until now. His stomach had also begun to ache like it did after he failed to block an attack from Soren during practice and received a wooden sword to the gut with a painful smack.

"Yes, I am a work in progress, young prince, but that in itself is proof of hope and the potential for change living on. I still struggle, yet because I have found not only hope but proof that affirms that hope, I press onward without fail."

"So Runaan needs proof that not all humans are bad? Proof other than the Dragon Prince being alive and well and two human princes being willing to return him home in hopes of preventing a war?"

Anora gave a small laugh. "Some of us are more stubborn than others."

"So how do I figure out what might convince Runaan to give humans a chance?"

"Perhaps Rayla could give you some ideas once you feel ready to talk to her about this."

"You two wrapping up with your juicy gossip? Because I think we're here, unless there's some other giant lake in this general direction with enough magical energy to make the cube thingy light up super bright like it is right now?"

Anora and Callum both felt their hearts perform a nosedive into their stomachs as they whipped their heads around to find Rayla standing not so far behind them, Zym atop her shoulder and crooning as she scratched the underside of his chin. Peering around the elf, Anora shot Maddie a pointed look from where she was lurking at least a yard behind the rest of the group and only received an apologetic smile paired with a nervous shrug from the redhead in response.

Positioning herself between Anora and Callum, Rayla wordlessly glanced from Callum's face to his satchel and then back again. Her expression was hard for him to read, appearing both impassive and irritated at the same time, and while Callum wanted to ask her just how much of their conversation she had heard, his mouth remained shut.

"I know you already gave me an answer but I'm going to ask you one more time: are you sure about this? That cube is something your father wanted you to have; we can search for some other magical artifact to trade with Castel."

Callum's gaze fell to his satchel just as his hand was reaching inside to retrieve the mysterious key, which was indeed glowing so brightly that its light was shining clean through the fabric. Drawing it out, he couldn't help but notice the comfortable warmth radiating from it along with a low, rather calming hum while it pulsed in his palm, and though the glow somewhat hurt his eyes, he just stared at it for awhile, his face distant while the heat mimicked the embrace of those strong but gentle arms he so missed as it crept its way throughout the rest of his body. Ever so briefly, his grip on the cube tightened, but it eventually went lax again.

"There isn't time to look for another artifact. This is what we have to do."

Circling around so she was directly in front of Callum, Anora slowly laid her hand on the cube. Once more, the prince's fingers latched firmly onto the tiny box, but eventually he permitted her to gradually slip it free from his grasp.

"I'm the only one here who is familiar with Castel's tricks, so I'll negotiate with him. It would be best for you three to wait up here-Wait, let me finish, Rayla-so he can't gain any more leverage than he already has by getting his grubby hands on you too. Maddie, do you have a hairpin on you?"

"What if something goes wrong while you're down there? How are we supposed to know so we can help?" Rayla protested as Anora carefully traced a rune onto her skin near the base of her neck before accepting the hairpin Madeleine offered to her. When she said nothing, merely offering her a morose look that left a dreary heaviness hanging over the group, the message was clear enough: were something to go wrong, there would be no helping her or Ezran. That would be it.

After brushing her bangs out of her eyes and securing them into place, Anora marched into the lake, only stopping to glance back at her companions who were crowding along the shore when the water had reached her waist. Despite her own thundering heart, she stood up a little straighter and flashed them a reassuring smile before diving beneath the surface, allowing the water to swallow her up.

[maruzzewrites]

Every breath you take. - 8

The drive was quiet, if only for the lack of attention you had for your surroundings. Each curve and streetlight was ingrained in your brain, your hands following the journey to your house with ease, allowing your mind to wander to the magic, dreamy land where you could imagine being safe and sound away from those men. Free and untroubled, allowing yourself to relax to the point of destruction, welcoming the contained stress of those months.

Before you could think too much, you were right in front of your house and your car was parked in the usual spot. You were in a trance, with your overworked brain straining to stop tearing and aching for the thoughts plaguing it. You slumped against the seat and turned off the car, enjoying the complete silence that came with the engine shutting down and the emptiness of the street. When you closed your eyes to give yourself away even more, they burned with the intensity of fatigue. You even felt yourself drift to sleep, slowly, before a swift knock on the car’s window made you jump.

You threw your head to the side, your vision a bit fuzzy, and saw the figure of a man right outside your car. Panic washed over you, but when the face that was looking at you become clearer, your fear morphed into worry and regret. Your fiance, or ex-fiance. You swallowed the lump in your throat, but figured he deserved any type of clarification or closure he asked for. He even deserved to yell and get angry, tearing into you to destroy what little hope you had left and push you fully into the cold feeling of not caring what would happen to you, giving up the prospect of freedom completely. You shook your head at the notion, and climbed out of the car before you could allow yourself to drown into your anxieties more.

When you were standing up, in front of him, you forced yourself to look him in the eyes. No matter how many times your gaze slipped and lowered, you pushed yourself to raise your head and wait for him to speak; no matter what, your throat was too dry to allow you to talk first, even if it was your duty to apologize and let him go. Despite a few seconds passing from the moment you were standing in front of him to the first words coming from his mouth, you felt the weight of each single second that ticked away and dropped on your mind, making you feel even more oppressed than you needed to.

“You look tired,” his voice didn’t betray any sentiment that wasn’t worry or apprehension, and you hated yourself ten times more with each note of concern. Any good resolution to keep your gaze steady and somber collapsed along with your eyes, pointed down and burning with tears. But you had to contain yourself, in front of him, so that he could just walk away. It didn’t matter if it was with bitter feelings or resentment towards you, until it meant he was far away from harm. Yet, you could head in his tone he wasn’t inclined to go along with your plan, “You don’t have to shoulder this, I’m here for you.”

It was a blow, hard and fast, knocking you out. You didn’t know how to answer or how to convince him to leave you alone, build his life differently, most of all because your heart ached at the thought. You didn’t want him to abandon you and find someone else, create a family and a future with them, it was supposed to be you. Selfish, and egotistical, but you wanted nothing more than to turn back and prevent yourself from throwing your life to those brutes who were only tearing it to shreds. You were allowing them to do so and no matter what path you would take, someone would suffer from it – never them, it seemed.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t leave you like this.” The finality, with the sweet consideration, it choked you to the point you couldn’t keep your tears from spilling, your voice cracked before even coming out. Your mind shattered for the umpteenth time, and your fiance was there to avoid losing the shards. He approached you, held you in his arms, reassured you that he would back off if you wanted to, but his words were clear and loud in their veiled self-assurance that you didn’t desire for him to go away, not for real.

All the while, you breathed with shallow and forced mouthfuls, your throat shut tight for the anxiety, the guilt, the hatred and the shame. All your fault, it was all your fault, it didn’t matter how much your rational thoughts screamed your innocence; if only you weren’t so weak and passive, those men wouldn’t see an inviting prey to their twisted game. Your fingers wouldn’t dig into your fiance’s back in an ambiguous tug to bring him closer and push him away. You wouldn’t fear your parents seeing you from the windows of your home in a way that you wouldn’t be able to explain without the whole story. And you were too tired, exhausted, to really conjure excuses and lies, cover the truth just for the peace of your loved ones.

In the safe embrace of your beloved, you crushed. It was ugly, but it was silent, kept intimate by the lingering terror of those assassins. And it was done before you could allow yourself to really let it all out, just to explain that you needed a bit of time, just patience to recompose yourself. In time, those men would leave you alone and you could come back to him, you begged for his forgiveness and his understanding, but you pleaded for him not to wait for you. The hurt in his eyes was enough to break what remained of your heart, and the promise he made to be there for you was the final cut.

“It’s not for you. It’s for me.” He answered your last supplication for him to move on with a curt and gentle statement, and you were left with nothing to do but exhale a shaky breath. He offered the subtlest of smiles to you, leaned in to give you a soft kiss on the corner of your mouth, and walked away slowly. You kept your head low, and didn’t raise it until his steps couldn’t be heard anymore. You scanned the street and found it empty, the feeling filling you a mix of calm and regret. You turned you walk towards your house and found the entrance door open. You frowned at the carelessness of whoever left the apartment complex open to intruders, but figured one of your neighbors just left it like that for a quick errand. You stepped in the common grounds, locked the door in a way that would prevent it from closing and walked towards the first steps of the staircase, deep down the vast courtyard.

Oddly enough, the door slammed shut on the other side. You turned quickly, but saw no one there to enter. You were alone and the wind was too weak that day to be of much help with the violent bang. At first, you considered going back and opening it again, but decided against it just in case someone sneaked in and was waiting to ambush you. You bit your tongue at your paranoid thought, just another deformity brought to you by the last months, but you reassured yourself with the knowledge that it wouldn’t be too out of the ordinary, in that city.

With the assumption that you would prefer to avoid any danger, you sprinted up the stairs and threw some glances towards the front door. No one in sight, not even trying to run after you, so you relax right before the entrance could disappear before your eyes. Climbing the stairs is a dreadful affair, if only because of the sensation of being at home, inside those walls that offered security for your entire life. You could allow yourself to fall apart in that privacy, show the weariness, and strain of that burden. The soft click of the key opening the wood door felt like the alarm that warned your brain of safety. Oddly enough, your idea of safety shaped into the possibility of torturing yourself in complete freedom and privacy in a few months; the taste of that thought was bitter and sour, leaving you with a grimace.

Once inside, you debated with yourself about announcing you were home, but you were anticipated by the quick steps of your mother from the living room. You knew the rhythm of her walk, somewhere between excitement and confusion, ready to rush towards the source of news that more easily could provide her with the right information. It just happened that you were the source, that time. She surfaced in a few instants at the door separating the hallway from the living room, and her face lightened up when she was sure it was you.

She nudged you into the room, window wide open and two cups of mugs peacefully sitting on the dining table, the one she would always insist on leaving without a stain and only using during the holidays. You frowned at the odd display, but her voice came to talk about someone. Someone who was there right before you arrived, and maybe you met him on your way up. Your mother wondered if that was the reason you took so much time outside your house, as she noticed your car coming up from the window and the stranger quickly excusing himself to meet you right outside the door. She giggled as she recollected the sound of a man’s voice outside the window, in the silent street. And your frown only deepened, with the muttered question of who she was talking about.

“Your friend,” she sounded genuinely confused, her head tilted as if she didn’t hear correctly. She blinked once, looked over the open window and then down the hallway where the front door was. She turned back to you after a second, a note of thoughtfulness in her words, “Blonde, slim. He introduced himself as a friend of yours, someone you knew very intimately.”

Her gaze turned soft, with strokes of complicity painting it. She lowered her voice as if she was sharing a secret with you, “You don’t have to hide it, you know,” her tone was aggravating to your nerves, your mind already working and turning to make sense of everything presented to you. You weren’t that naïve that you didn’t understand what was happening, not with your mother description of this man who walked into your house, but deep down your irrational brain was pushing the notion away so that you didn’t have to process it to its full extent. However, you weren’t granted that luxury, not with your mother continuing to talk, “Is he the reason you were nervous lately? And you ended your relationship?”

You were incredulous. The mixture of emotions inside of you, too overwhelming to be separated and named with precision, made you dizzy and unable to react properly in the seconds right after her questions. By the way her face changed in a look of pure confusion and light worry, you could understand your own features morphed into the close approximation of your internal turmoil. In the confusion in your own head, your mind scrambled and trashed to grip anything to anchor an emotion, any among the amalgamation, and eventually settled on indignation. Cold, vicious outrage that was born from abuse you had to endure, unable to take concrete form before melting into anxiety for the entirety of your permanence in that house.

“Don’t you dare insinuate that.” Your answer was final and cutting, more frigid than anything you had ever said before, especially to your parents. Your mother’s disbelief was so genuine and sudden that she didn’t have time to berate you, grumbling about misunderstandings and moodiness while she collected the cups from the table and disappeared somewhere. You didn’t follow her with your eyes, too focused in front of you. Then you turned to the window, with the gentle breeze coming in and leading you to the edge to look down.

There, kissed by the sun, was Prosciutto. Leaning on the side of your car, close to the front door of your apartment building. He was smoking, and the cigarette was lazily hanging from his lips as his head with tip back. His unfocused gaze shifted to you when he detected motion at your house’s window, and his hand left his pocket to take the cigarette between his index and middle finger to let out a puff of smoke. Barely anything changed in his behavior, he didn’t wave, he didn’t smile, just looked at you while lounging in front of your house. In your space, where you could be safe and away from their prying hands, their creepy and frightening presence.

It was impetus, a surge of anger you bottled up for far too long, that made you move away from that window in a hurry. You barged in your own room, bringing all that negativity inside of your calm and placid sanctuary, and threw your drawer open. You didn’t ponder on it too much, grabbing whatever could be caught in your trembling hands and letting everything else fall to its destiny, on the floor, with a noise that sounded too loud in your ears. Yet, you didn’t pay any mind to the mess or the highlighted senses, storming into the living room with heavy steps, hasty and unsteady with emotion fueling them.

Your hand found the windowsill, gripping it tightly in a matter of seconds. A quick look down and you could see Prosciutto was still there, his feet now crossed and his eyes looking in front of him, his head lightly tilted in the direction of the front door. The flame inside of you flickered in a last sparkle of bravery, just what you needed to raise your hand and throw whatever was in your hand down. The pocket mirror and the jewelry hit the ground, and the noise cut the air into a loaded silence as Prosciutto’s head whipped in the direction of the ruined trinkets.

Time seemed to have stopped, if only enough to let your courage cool down, solidify into a monument for the fear building up. Prosciutto’s eyes raised, slowly, and you could imagine the narrow slits of his eyes wound your skin, bruising your resolve. Despite seeing the entire scene in front of you, the details seemed foggy and distant, helped by the distance between you and him. However, you could feel the burning glare dragging the bile in your throat up, up, until it lapped at your tongue and palate. It felt corrosive, and alien, almost too much to bear; Prosciutto’s hand raised again, and you flinched as if he was about to strike you across the face.

He pulled the cigarette out of his mouth, holding it between his thumb and index, and then he flicked it away from him and onto the street. It landed somewhere near the remains of their gifts, still lit, and when your gaze shifted towards your car, Prosciutto was already walking away in the direction that would bring him farther away from the right path for his house. You followed his silhouette as it got smaller and darker, a simple dot in the gray of the street, and then your eyes dropped to the mess you made.

Shattered, broken in small pieces, all across the narrow street. Tomorrow, you would probably find it there to greet you when you stepped outside. The cigarette continued to burn, consume itself on the concrete, falling apart with agonizing slowness. Despite being so far away and so small, you felt like you could smell it, for how much you grew to know its shape and scent. Slender and elegant, so common at his lips that you could barely imagine him without, and you wanted to puke at the familiarity of that image.

The show in display to you, of the corpse made by your own hands, was enough to make your stomach close, twist and knot in painful, disgusting ways. It had been an impulsive choice, dictated by false safety and the violation of the only fantasy you allowed yourself in your situation, a dream where you could close the door of your house and the would disappear, not cross the imaginary boundary you set to feel as if you could escape or, at least, pretend to. Even then, when you retreated in your room, you felt your throat tighten dangerously at the sight of what was left on the floor, as clues of your fleeting rage.

You bent down to pick up the hairband and twisted it between your fingers, stretching out the cheap rubber band keeping it together and functional. You were suddenly captured by an odd state, where your mind couldn’t stop thinking about what you did – no, what happened, you did nothing – and, yet, it was like your mind was completely blank. A static silence in your ears, pushing any sound outside to be ignored, while your brain run after a thought, the concept of the chaos you may have created for yourself. However, it was a confused chase in the dark as you couldn’t grasp and focus on the current situation.

What could happen, would Prosciutto really tell his teammates what you did? Or was he too proud of a man to really confide in the only people who could be called his friends or confidantes? It was unnerving how little you knew of them and, no matter how much you felt their eyes on you or how much they deluded themselves, they knew next to nothing about you. They barely seemed to know anything about other human beings, how they operate and how they would build their lives outside the line of organized crime. You swallowed the lump in your throat, suddenly coming back in room after the gloomy thought shoved you back to reality to defend yourself from other dark considerations.

You left the hairband on the desk, unsure about finally dumping it inside the trashcan you left in your room. Then, you noticed the phone you left at home all day, checking the notifications that you had. Obviously, some calls from numbers you didn’t memorize, but could identify at first glance. After getting rid of those notifications, you noticed how some of your own friends attempted to call you during the day and, in the end, a single missed call from your fiance.

Conflict started inside of you, but you forced yourself to ignore his attempt to call you. After all, you were sure he did so only to talk and before he started to wait for you outside your house. You grimaced at the thought that he could have met Prosciutto, getting out of your home just before leaving, and for a moment a cold flash of horror crossed your brain. Prosciutto did go in the same direction as your fiance. For your peace of mind, you shook your head at the notion and pushed yourself to call your friends.

All it took was a few rings, then a familiar voice greeted you with cheerful energy. You responded, but she didn’t even notice the evident drain in your tone before she went on a rant about how she met a nice man that day. There was a note in her voice, as if she was trying to communicate a complicit wink with her voice. You didn’t like it at all, making your hand clench with the implications that you didn’t want to understand. She continues, about a bony scientist with odd hair and an even weirder outfit approaching her in the streets, as if they knew each other. He said he was a friend of yours, how much you talked about her and the rest of the group, he even showed a photo of you without much on that could indicate anything but closeness with him.

Your lips felt too dry to open and speak, your eyes fixed on the wall in front of you as you slowly lowered yourself on the bed. You felt ill at the second instance of invasion of your privacy and your personal sphere; no matter how much you wanted to convince yourself that it could be pure coincidence that the description matched one of the demented men who was harassing you out of a life, you couldn’t even attempt to deflect the evidence presented to you. So you stayed silent while your friend threw you question after question about this new, mysterious suitor of yours.

“I gotta be honest,” her tone took an annoying pitch, a turn that you couldn’t foresee or forget once your brain registered it. You didn’t know what to expect by this exchange when your friend didn’t have the context of the whole situation. Not that you had any intention to let her know, if that could spare her. All the same, her words started to cut worse than knives, “He was way better than your ex. At least he seemed to have something going on for him!”

You dry heaved at the idea and at the hints, covering the motion and the noise with a sudden fit of coughs that shook your body with violence and tremors. Your muscles strained, and you heard your friend inquire about your well being, a trace of concern in her voice. You recuperated as soon as you could, but your tone was shaky when you talked, “Don’t say that, please.”

It was different from the treatment you reserved your mother earlier, now that your anger melted into meek exhaustion and inconveniencing apprehension. You couldn’t bring yourself to yell or demand, just metaphorically dragging yourself on your knees to beg them to reconsider any idea those first encounters instilled in their heads. Your friend, however, didn’t catch the nuance in your voice as you silently pleaded with her, and simply insisted that he seemed like a nice man, someone perfect for you and your future away from the fatigue of illicit work inside strangers’ houses. Those words sent shivers up and down your spine.

“He isn’t what he seems.” You couldn’t gather the strength to counter further, that statement all your mind could pierce together to argue against the good intentions of that vile person who wanted to slither inside your life. She didn’t let go though, still stubborn that he couldn’t be dangerous, or that bad if you allowed yourself to be looked at in such a plain fashion by him. You gritted your teeth at the answer, at the attitude, at the misplaced irritation and at the frustration building up as you couldn’t scream at the world what you were going through. With a rushed decision, you ended the call as she was still talking, and ignored the subsequent call as you left the phone hit the bed under you.

Your forehead found your hands, and you dragged the palms up and down your face as if to wake yourself up from a long, delirious nightmare of a life. Tomorrow, you would wake up as if it was the day before your first day on the job, and you would walk in hesitantly. You would clean and leave them lunch, but you would come back to find them relaxing in their house, not minding you at all. Ignored and neglected by those dangerous men, only some words exchanged for requests and compliments on your cooking, but nothing more than that. You felt your eyes getting misty at the wishful desire in your heart.

You bit your tongue when your phone ringed again, a quick glance over your shoulder letting you know that it was one of those men calling. You didn’t know if it was Melone, as he was the most recurring culprit of flooding your phone, or someone else, but you really didn’t want to find out. Unluckily, the flashing number on the phone’s display made you remember the horrible idea that hit you a bit earlier: how Prosciutto was, supposedly, on the possible pursuit of your darling, sweet fiance. The dreadful notion poisoned your mind, making it impossible to think of anything else as you tortured yourself with all the possibilities, all the scenarios where your beloved would be threatened, ruined, beaten or worse. All pictures of vivid realism, terrifying in their sharpness, as they drowned your mind, your eyes, your ears.

You felt like you were chocking on your anxiety, and your fingers trembled as you picked up the phone, now still and silent. You weren’t sure what to do, if calling your fiance would be any good, if you would simply hear Prosciutto’s voice greeting you with nonchalance as you heard your fiance pained wails and the crack of a whip, the click of a gun, the barking of dogs, any clue of the immense cruelty that could wreck your spirit just a bit further.

All too much, your mind floating in suspension again, but the vibrating motion of your phone anchored you to reality. Your fiance's number, flashing on the screen, making you cut your breath short. You felt lightheaded as you clicked the key and let the device near your ear, far away enough that the sound was more muffled and softer. You were ready to hear the derisive laugh of Prosciutto, taunting you about how foolish you were for thinking you could save him, but the soothing tone of your fiance reached you. You felt your muscles relax, and they trembled from the constricting tension taking hold of them.

“Thank God,” you couldn’t stop yourself from muttering those words, and your fiance suddenly stopped with what he was about to say, seemingly cautious. He asked if you were safe, if anything happened to let you sigh with relief so casually, and you shook your head before you could really think about the fact he couldn’t see you. You answered with the little voice you could still muster, but you forced yourself to speak more, to reassure him of your safety, “I just had a bad evening, that’s all. I’m happy to hear you.”

The chuckle coming from the other side of the speaker was gentle, yet coated in heavy defeat. He didn’t question anything you said, just making you notice how it was barely an hour, maybe something more, since you two saw each other outside your house. He was calling to let you know he was fine, everything was good, and your spent brain didn’t pick anything odd in his tone, no matter how you tried to activate the paranoid parts of your brain to detect anything suspicious. You were too relaxed, a pounding headache emerging from the tension snapping suddenly, and your body slumped over the pillow on your bed. An hour, he said. You must have been too focused on your misery to notice anything outside, not even your mother knocking to let you know dinner was ready or to ask if you needed the bathroom to shower.

You exchanged few words with your darling, as if nothing in your relationship changed at all, despite all the sorrow you noticed earlier in his gaze. You said your goodbyes, and then you were alone in the solitude of your room. Evening was settling, the sky was tinted in soft hues of spring and warmth, but you couldn’t find in yourself the strength to stand up to live the rest of the evening before bed time. So, you settled on sleeping earlier than usual. Your rest was hollow, as if it didn’t happen at all, and you were left confused the next morning.

Your routine was sluggish, that morning. Your mother was worried, peeking at you from the kitchen each time you attempted to stay alone in the living room or at the table, but you could understand she was concerned about your behavior from the day before. All you could offer, in the fog of your turmoil, was a polite smile directed at her. Barely a plaster over the gaping wound, but you had to think about other things, like how you could face your tormentors during your next visit at the house.

Them as your eyes drifted to the desk and to the headband resting on it, the idea that came to you during your car trip to return home flashed in your mind. Maybe your mistake could be twisted into the right light if you played your cards right, not even as dirty as they were doing. You spent the rest of the week preparing, the only moments of pause you conceded yourself were the short calls with your fiance or your friends, who insisted on complimenting you on the good scion of wealthy origins that was chanting your praises. It would be annoying if the notion of Melone talking to your group of friends didn’t keep you from approaching them anymore. But it fueled the feeling of needing to plant the seed of discord among those men who wanted to tear down your life, just to build over the ruins.

Eventually, the designed day came and you stepped outside your house for the first time in an entire week. You winced when you saw that the broken mirror and the scattered jewelry were still laying on the street, simply shoved to the side so that they wouldn’t cause any trouble to those who were passing. You closed yourself in your car and breathed deeply to regain the lost composure, calm your nerves before your exhibition.

The drive felt slower and shorter at the same time, as if the space and the time separating you from the was distorted in horrible ways, but you reached your destination. Your grip on the wheel was tight, and you were about to give up on the plan now that you could see the towering house looming over you. However, you swallowed the fear, and stepped to the door. There, you straightened yourself up, adjusted Formaggio’s shirt and Ghiaccio’s hair accessories, and then unlocked the entrance. The click of the key was loud, if only because you were hyper aware of everything around you.

Once you were inside, your eyes on the floor, you left your belongings at the usual spot. When you raised your head, Prosciutto was there, leaning on the kitchen’s door with pretend serenity. When he eyed you up and down, you gave him a civil smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes, and he narrowed his eyes at the motion. He turned around, separating from the wall, and headed up the stairs with visible disdain in his stance. You took a second to calm yourself after this first step, then walked towards the living room to check who was in there.

It seemed like only Formaggio and Illuso decided to hang out in the room, but both of them looked over when they perceived the movements at the door. Both their faces lightened up in a twisted happiness that felt like a punch in the guts, but you stomached it as well as you could. Formaggio raised his hand to wave at you, and you reciprocated the gesture, to his surprise. Then, Illuso motioned to do the same, but you turned your head before he could and went for the stairs. All you could hear behind you were the barks of laughs and the barely concealed murmuring of threats.

You exhaled shakily, and grabbed the rail so that you wouldn’t fall down as you climbed the stairs.

[ampleappleamble]

reminder: yall on ao3 real nice, also i love you thank you so much

also i’m gonna go ahead and post chapter 5 here in its entirety too (under a cut, natch) just in case. meanwhile, i’m chopping and screwing screenshots into big huge frankenstein images so i can obsess over canon conversations and lore on the go! some of these screenshots are just pure comedy though. post ‘em later! anyway, here it is in case you missed it:

Chapter 5: Home and Hearth

---

Edér wondered sometimes just how long it would take his hometown to finally die.

It reminded him of this dog he used to know when he was a kid, a sweet old hound dog called Tibbeth. She was the Rask's dog, but the whole town knew her, cared for her, fed her scraps. Everyone loved that dog. By the time Edér was old enough to make lasting memories, she was reaching the end of her breeding years, and she only mellowed out further with each year that passed. He remembered her fondly from his childhood: Tibby making him late for dawn church service because she sat on his feet and wouldn't stop giving him Sad Eyes till he rubbed her tummy. Tibby wandering between two arguing friends and licking herself so ostentatiously that the argument was completely forgotten, ending in peals of laughter instead of fisticuffs.

But as he grew into an adolescent, Tibby grew elderly and decrepit. Her teeth and fur fell out. She limped. Her scat was watery and thin, and she tended to let it fall wherever she stood. Her belly distended, and she started getting mean and lashing out at those who tried to touch her, tried to help her.

He had known there was something growing inside of her that was hurting her, and what was worse, he had known that there was nothing anyone could do to help her. But to Edér, the worst thought of all was that she was still in there under it all. Under all the pain and fear, sweet old Tibby was still in there wanting nothing but belly rubs and bits of ham from your plate. It was the sickness made her snap at you, made her shit all over herself and struggle and scream while you tried to clean her up. Made her scared.

And it was this sickness that made his hometown like this, now. And just like with Tibby, there was nothing he could do to help. No way to excise the tumor. His gaze wandered to the corpse-strewn monster of a tree nearby. Nothing left to do but end it mercifully.

But he hadn't even had it in him to watch as Tibby was put down all those years ago. She had scratched and bitten the Gyrning's baby girl, and even though she was old and half toothless, she did enough damage to scar the child for life. He had run away back then, hiding the tears he had been getting too old to shed so freely anymore.

He sighed heavily, barely squinting against the feeble morning sunlight as he gazed out over the only home he had ever known.

"We're both gettin' too old for this, ain't we?" Edér murmured.

Gilded Vale did not answer him.

The hairs on the back of his neck suddenly stood on end, and he turned slowly, carefully, to look at the tree again. He wasn't alone.

---

The rest of the morning hadn't gone so badly.

She'd suffered a nightmare, she'd explained, and the strange hallucinations she'd told him about before had decided to manifest at the worst possible time: exactly when she had woken up. Hence the... episode she'd had. Understandable, given the circumstances.

Unfortunately, she did still want to go back to that tree. "For closure," she'd pleaded. "It'll only take a moment, I promise you."

They had dressed and packed their meager belongings in awkward silence, making it all the way downstairs to a table with their bowls of tepid porridge in hand before she had spoken up again.

"I'm sorry," she'd stated, stirring the beige mess in her bowl with all the enthusiasm of a prisoner fastening her own noose. "That was probably a... distinctly unpleasant experience for you. And this little detour probably will be, too. ...Please know that I truly appreciate your agreeing to accompany me nonetheless."

She sounded as though she'd been planning this apology all morning, phrasing and rephrasing it in her head until she could strike a palatable balance between being honest with him and maintaining etiquette. Aloth had accepted without hesitation, of course. He had almost apologized to her himself in return, for perhaps having seen... more than she may have wanted a near-stranger to see, but he had thought better of it and remained silent instead. He hadn't wanted to embarrass her by bringing up her strange behavior again. She seemed to appreciate it.

And now he was standing a few paces behind her in the center of town as she stared at a dead woman in a tree.

 They had been standing there for fifteen minutes.

 "She's aff 'er heed, lad."

"Nobody asked you," he sighed through gritted teeth.

---

Axa regarded the new, dark world in which she found herself with fear and wonder. She had expected to see the dead woman, feel a little foolish, and then set off on the road. She had not been expecting this at all.

Caldara de Berranzi's soul looked back at her, smiling a gentle, motherly smile.

"What is this?" She said it, but she didn't, just like in her dream. "What's happened to me?"

And the animancer responded in the same fashion. "Poor thing! You must be so confused. The world is a baffling place, and the world beyond the Shroud even more so. But that world is yours now, too, to bear witness to."

"I don't understand," Axa whimpered. She really, really didn't. She didn't even know if this was really happening.

The dwarven woman's soul smiled sadly at the little orlan, tsked in sympathy. "I know you don't, dear. It's a lot to take in. Here, let me put it this way: Whatever happened to you, it freed your soul from your body, but not all the way. You were pulled into this world--" The dwarf gestured at the swirling morass of essence and void around them-- "the In-Between of Life and Death. But! You must have only been here for an instant. Any longer, and you'd have ended up staying here, like me." Caldara gestured at herself, a bloated corpse dangling from a tree, with a sweet little chuckle.

"Your soul remembers, though. Remembers even after it returns to your body. Remembers how it sees in this world. Souls, their histories, their memories, their paths through the In-Between. All are yours to observe." The animancer nodded sagely.

"You are a Watcher, now," she chirped, "and a Watcher you will stay."

Axa blinked. Watcher. The word from her dream.

 "I... I don't know what that means at all."

Caladara sighed softly. "Oh dear, oh dear. Make yourself comfortable, aimoranet. We have a lot more talking to do."

---

Aloth was starting to feel uneasy.

It had been just over 20 minutes now, and Axa still stood in the same spot, mesmerized by the dead animancer. They were drawing curious stares from townsfolk as they passed by, and he was getting nervous about what might happen-- what might come out of his mouth-- should one of them try to start something.

He glanced around furtively, his open grimoire like a leaden weight in his hands, searching for anything to focus on besides the fact that he'd apparently elected to travel with this woman. A blond man with a pipe, leaning casually against a collapsed wall some distance away, cocked an eyebrow at him. The message was completely unspoken, but easily understood. "Uh, your friend okay there?"

He shot back a look that he hoped said both "Mind your own business, please" and "I have absolutely no idea why she's doing this," somehow.

The man with the pipe shrugged, glanced up at the dead dwarf, then turned away. Aloth took the opportunity to study him a bit further, recognizing him vaguely from his time in town. He'd seen this man around, although not as much in recent weeks. He was vaguely aware of the Vale's day-to-day goings-on, and he seemed to recall seeing less of this particular face around the same time the local lord strung up his latest hapless victim in this gruesome abomination of a tree. Aloth tried to remember exactly who that victim had been...

...before noticing, with a start, that Axa had moved. She'd snapped out of whatever strange fugue state had taken hold of her and she stood before him now, looking for all the world like a child woken prematurely from a nap: confused, angry, morose.

He proceeded extremely cautiously. "Axa? Are you alright?" He leaned a bit closer for privacy's sake. "You seemed... a bit lost, there." For almost half an hour.

Either she didn't notice his attempt at discretion or she didn't care. "According to that dead woman," she blurted, "I'm a Watcher."

He felt his eyebrows leap up to his hairline. "Oh. Well. That... explains a lot, actually."

---

Edér had watched the elf and the orlan the entire time they stood before the tree.

The elf he'd seen around town here and there recently, but he'd never interacted with the man. Of course, he'd heard others talking about him, saying all kinds of things: a haughty foreigner who thinks he can bring his high-falutin' Aedyran ass here and piss on our hospitality. But given the usual kind of horseshit his fellow townsfolk usually spewed these days, he didn't put much merit in what they had to say. At least he tended to mind his own business.

The orlan had just arrived the previous day, and when he saw Raedric's henchman approach her, he'd actually tensed up, preparing for a fight. With everything he'd heard about orlans, he was half expecting her to pull a knife, or maybe even whisper some sort of cipher magic. But instead she'd just shouted at Urgeat, mad as Hel and rightfully so. Edér had been unable to stop himself smiling at the look on the magistrate's pinched-up little asshole of a face.

Then the bell had tolled, and suddenly everyone in town had bigger issues to deal with. She'd looked positively miserable as she'd trudged past him on the way to the Black Hound Inn.

Look at that, he'd thought, watching her plod slowly forward. Practically one of us already.

She'd met his eye for a moment, and he'd raised his pipe to her in a commiserative gesture. "Welcome to our lovely town," he'd quipped. And she had smiled at him in response, even after all that abuse she'd just had to take from Urgeat.

Maybe that was why he'd decided to say something when she passed him again. She didn't look to be in any higher spirits than she had when he'd said something before, but she had smiled at him back then, so what was the worst that could happen this time?

"Seventeen-and-a-half," he called out to her, and grinned. She's a little kith, maybe she'll like this one.

She and the elf turned to him, both of them wearing facial expressions similar to ones they might have had he catcalled them in an especially vulgar manner.

...Off to a great start, Edér thought. Nothing to do but press on.

"Eighteen dependin' on if you count the dwarf woman as a full person or not. ...I think you oughtta."

She approached him then, slowly, scrutinizing him with her eerie slitted pupils, while the elven man followed behind her. "You're saying there are eighteen people hanging in that tree?"

"Last I counted. You mean to tell me you were standin' there that whole time and you wasn't even counting 'em?"

Her cheeks brightened, and she turned to the elf. "Aloth? How long was I-- were we standing there like that?"

The elf, Aloth apparently, winced apologetically at the little woman. "Oh, only about... about twenty minutes. Ish."

The orlan huffed out something between a laugh and a cough. "Only twenty minutes!" She shook her head, grinning, hands on her hips. "Excellent. I was worried I looked like a weird asshole for a minute there."

Edér laughed aloud at last, and held out his hand in greeting. "Edér Teylecg. Although y' may as well just call me Nineteen."

"Axa Mala." He felt soft, fine fur in his hand when she shook it, and with it an extremely confusing mix of emotions. The elf behind her introduced himself as well, as Aloth Corfiser, before she continued. "Nineteen, huh. You mean to say you think you're next?"

Edér smiled sadly, looking up at his friends and neighbors in the tree. "May as well be. Eighteen's my former captain in the war. Was my headman on the farm till Raedric put 'im up there for darin' to stand up for us. For me." He squinted back down at the little woman, clenching his pipe between his teeth. "Bein' honest though, way you were carryin' on with the magistrate the other day, I can't see you makin' it much further than, oh, 22, 23, tops. You seem like the sort of lady likes t' get involved."

She really did, too. For the first time since they'd started talking, her gaze met his, and the intensity of her bright violet eyes almost made him want to look away. Not quite. But almost.

She had a strange, guarded look on her face as she peered up at him. "Do you know what a Watcher is?"

Edér choked on his pipe smoke. This little gal was full of surprises.

---

"Caed Nua, huh? ...Haven't thought about that old place in a long time. Man such as Maerwald, there might be things I wanna ask him. Don't know why I never thought of that."

Obscured One, you have truly outdone yourself this time, Axa mused, a slow smile spreading across her face. This was what she'd been missing after her expulsion: A mission, a purpose, a destination in life.

I was ready to die, and you gave me this gift: an absolutely insane convoluted nightmare scenario, compelling me to try to make sense of it... and in doing so, requiring me to stay alive. I am truly grateful. She closed one eye, sending her prayer to Wael.

It was remarkable how much better she felt just knowing what was wrong with her, having a name for it. Watcher. The knowledge presented new challenges, certainly, but at least now she knew what she was up against. And she even had a tangible, short-term goal in mind:

 Get to Caed Nua. Find the Watcher, Maerwald.

The blond folk, Edér, scratched his bristly beard while he thought about her offer. But she could tell he'd already made up his mind. This couldn't go any other way. She'd seen him in her dream, alongside Caldara. A clear sign! This was meant to be!

...Okay, maybe she was taking it a bit too far there.

"I dunno about settin' out with a couple of strangers. Strange strangers at that." He glanced at Aloth and grinned apologetically. "No offense, cousin."

"I'll vouch for him," Axa smiled, stretching, preparing for the work ahead of her. "It's me you have to watch out for."

Aloth shrugged. "Either way, you're probably better off out there with us than here, being sized up for a noose by every other neighbor."

"Can't argue with that. Aw, what the Hel. Sure, I'll do some sightseeing with you folks." Edér grinned at the two of them, his broad, ruddy face brightening considerably. "Where's our first stop on this little roadtrip? We're buyin' supplies, I suppose?"

Axa winced, clutching at her sad, barren little coinpurse. "Uh. Listen... About that--"

---

[snowpeawritings]

ATLA aang x reader where she's completely unaware of his feelings towards her and everytime he tries to admit that he likes her, things get in the way, so sokka or toph (or both tbh) tell her that aang likes her scenario? 😅

sort of following this!

Reader us female

CW (CONTENT WARNING): None

“I did what you said-are you sure that she knows?”

“Sure I’m sure! You know how she is, she’s super oblivious!”

“Or maybe…” Katara sighed. “That Sokka doesn’t know how girls work and he’s winging it.”

Sokka glared back at his sister, ready to retort back while Aang sulked down on his sitting rock. “This is hopeless.”

Your awakening a few weeks ago was something Aang would never forget. Seeing the scar where the lightning exited would haunt him forever and the fact that you refused to have Katara heal it (“It’s a cool battle scar!” You exclaimed) just makes his insides churn. 

He was the Avatar for crying out loud; he went into the Avatar State, the most powerful form he can be in, and yet he failed in protecting you.

“In any case!” Sokka yelled, crossing his arms across his chest. “Aang here needs closure right now! And I say we’re the only ones who can bring ‘em together!”

Katara shrugged, letting her teasing smirk fall from her face. “Count me out. I’d rather have Aang do it himself than us having to butt in.”

She then looked over to Aang with a small smile. “Good luck, Aang.”

The young boy gave her a curt nod before she left the room. In that instant, Toph came inside the room, hands behind her head with a bored look on her face.

“So I heard Twinkle-Toes has it rough,” she said, all the while smirking, “what’s the plan?”

The city of Ba Sing Se is a magical place that you could never grasp your head around. Not once did you think that you were able to make it past your home and into the neighboring lands. Sure, you joined Aang and Bumi in Omashu but other than that one place in the Earth Kingdom, you had no knowledge in any other place in the Earth Kingdom.

Of course, you still had to search for Appa but seeing the beautiful park near the inn you were staying in was something to put you at ease. 

Your electrocution still gave you nightmares.

“Have you been to this place Aang?” You questioned the boy, who was fidgeting with the ends of his shawl. The action caused your eyebrow to raise up but decided against questioning Aang. He was probably worried about Appa, right?

“I’m sure Appa will be okay.” You said softly, causing him to look at you with a confused expression. “He’s just as stubborn as Toph so I’m sure that he’ll be fine.”

Aang blinked at your answer before realizing that his face was giving away his troubles. “Oh… that’s not what I was-well, that’s one of the things I’m thinking about.”

Seeing a bench, you dragged Aang to sit down with you. The blossom tree next to you had its petals dance softly around you and Aang. “Wanna talk?”

He sighed. “There’s a lot going on in my mind that I can’t get my thoughts in order. First there’s Appa, then the Fire Nation in Ba Sing Se, then–”

Aang cut himself off before he could delve deeper. Your eyebrows were raised at his sudden clamming up but when you saw him fidget with his hands, you knew immediately it was something far more important. Far more damaging to Aang’s mentality.

“Aang,” you started, “if this is about what happened in the cave, I don’t blame you and I will never blame you.”

“H-Huh?” He said dumbly. “That’s-well, yeah but—”

Before he could even continue his rambling, some shakiness in a nearby bush caught his attention. To his horror, Sokka and Toph were in the bush, the former shaking his head at Aang’s gaze on him while Toph was sitting there like it was normal to hide in a bush.

What in the Spirit World are they doing?!

“Aang?” You asked him. “Something wrong?”

When he realized that he had been gawking at the two for too long, he shook his head and nervously smiled. “Oh, nothing! Just saw a bird.”

“A-Anyway, I have something to say to you.” He finally spat out. “I’ve been keeping this to myself for a long time so I think today’s a better time than any to say this.”

Aang took a deep breath, mentally preparing himself for the potential rejection. “We’ve known each other for a long time and I felt like we’ve gone through so much.”

His lines were well rehearsed in his head and he had Sokka to thank for that (he can even hear Sokka’s nods of approval without looking). “You mean so much to me and I’m not just saying that because you were with me in that block of ice. You were there for me even when I ran away, even when you knew my future, even when you were going to get hurt because of me.”

His fists tightened against his lap, the image of you taking the bolt still fresh in his mind. “I never wanted to see that happen to you again but—”

“Aang,” you gently interrupted him, “what are you getting at?”

He took in a deep breath, preparing for the worst. “_____, I really li—”

A sharp yelp made the both of you shoot up from your seat. Behind you, a man carrying a basket of cabbages was screaming at a young boy due to stepping on one of his produce.

The sight was humorous but it definitely killed the mood for whatever Aang was about to say. Despite that endeavor, the boy pursued back into your conversation by holding your hand in his. Bold move, Sokka would say, but a welcome move due to the interruption.

“Anyway,” he continued, “w-what I wanted to tell you is that—”

A crash was the next one. You and Aang looked behind you again to see the same cabbage man now screaming at the broken basket with ruined cabbages.

Now it was getting ridiculous.

“What I wanted to say is…!” Aang started before anything else should happen. Like the world was against him having a happy ending, another crash interrupted his confession. Both of you were expecting the cabbage man but to your surprise, it was Sokka and Toph who dogpiled on top of the cabbage man, with Sokka covering the man’s mouth and Toph sitting on his legs.

“_____!” Sokka yelled. “Aang likes you a lot! Like a real real lot!”

“Twinkle-Toes has it bad for you, Airhead!” Toph then followed. “Just cut him some slack!”

The fact that they both yelled in a public park was embarrassing enough, the fact that onlookers were already looking at the spectacle is even more embarrassing. Aang already looked like he was about to die by turning into a fireball with how red his entire face is.

“Well…” You started, hoping to ease Aang’s shame. “Despite the fiasco… you wanna go someplace quiet and continue our talk?”

Your hopeful smile and shy expression made Aang being grateful for the interruptions from both the cabbage man and his friends.

[spookyspaghettisundae]

Try English

Mary blew smoke out through her nose. It stung.

The empty beer bottles on her grimy kitchen table clinked and clattered as her sleeve snagged on something that made the cluttered table’s surface rattle. She flicked ashes from her cigarette into an overflowing ashtray. She ignored this mess, her eyes instead trained on the person standing in front of the refrigerator.

Her brother, Malcolm. He stood there with an almost meditative calmness and stared back at her. His gaze swept through the messy place, never lingering too long on anything like the pile of unwashed dishes, the stacks of old newspapers, or the mountain of empty cans heaped up on the counter. Malcolm looked far better than she remembered him: less pale, and stronger somehow—like he had been working out.

Most of all, how he looked when she last saw him, lying in a casket. Malcolm had been dead for over four years.

The hand Mary used to hold her cigarette trembled. Not with fear, but anger. She was an angry person. Always had been, always would be. Seeing Malcolm back had made a pit form in her stomach, because she wasn’t finished with him. She wasn’t finished with a lot of people.

See, when most other people see anybody return from the dead, they go straight to shock, denial, or pure, unadulterated dread.

But not Mary. Most of her family members had died. And they had had the audacity to kick the bucket before she could really tell them how she felt about them. A lot of messed up history to sort through. A lot of pent-up rage, waiting to be unleashed. And here was Malcolm, loitering around in her home like nothing had ever happened.

She took another long drag from her cigarette and rolled her jaw while she searched her mind for the right words. But none came yet.

“Love what you did with the place, Mary,” Malcolm mused. The corners of his mouth twitched until they twisted upwards into a creepy smile. “You think Mom would have appreciated how you turned this place into such a miserable dump?”

He licked his lips and hooked his thumbs into the belt holding up his jeans.

“Fuck you,” Mary snapped at him.

Malcolm showed no instant reaction, then burst out with a brief chuckle. Knowing. Malevolent.

“I didn’t turn this place into a dump, I let it turn into a dump,” she then corrected him, letting the smoke pour out of her mouth while she spoke.

Malcolm grabbed an open bottle of stale beer from the counter and sniffed it. He raised it as if to perform a mockery of making a toast.

“I see you’ve become a philosopher in the meanwhile, sis,” Malcolm mused. The creepy smile maintained its place on his visage. It turned into a cringe after he took a swig from the bottle, and the rotten taste assaulted his pristine taste buds.

“Yeah. Night shifts at a shitty gas station for over six years sure do lend themselves to deep introspection. Take that bottle, for instance. Is it half empty, or half full of go fuck yourself?”

He smirked and put the bottle down, which caused a small pyramid of empty old cans of beans to collapse as the glass connected with them. He turned away from her and plucked a piece of paper attached to the fridge’s door with a magnet without even shooting it a passing glance.

Mary flinched, somehow sensing that he knew the contents of whatever was written on it without reading. It just made sense. She just made sense of things.

“How are your anger management classes going? Any progress with that, Maddy?”

Her left eye twitched upon hearing that old nickname.

“They’re goin’ good, dickweed. I have a crowbar I can get to cave in your tail lights if you need a demonstration,” she said. She snuffed out her cigarette, mashing it into the pile of other butts in her ashtray, causing more cancer dust to spill out and onto her table.

That wiped the grin right off his face. Which, in turn, prompted a satisfied smirk of her own to form on Mary’s face in response.

“How’d you get here anyway? Hijack a car? Also, not to really address the elephant in the room here, but how the fuck are you not just a pile of maggot-riddled rotten meat and bones? It’s been six years, chickenshit.”

He approached the table and leaned forward until he rested his knuckles against the only vacant spots on it, hunching forward to move uncomfortably close to her. Mary picked up one of the beer bottles in front of her and took a sip from it to wet her chapped lips. She gripped the glass so hard that her knuckles turned white, ready to weaponize the object.

It was not fear that she felt. Mary’s blood boiled.

“See, I’m not really your little brother. I’m just borrowing his body to come see you in person, Mary.”

“Of course, just my fucking luck. Fuck me for hoping to finally get some closure by telling my little dipshit of a brother to eat shit.”

He flashed a toothy grin before he replied, “I can play pretend, if you want. We know many things, Mary. We who pierce the veil and cross over as we wish—we know everything.”

She relaxed her grip around the bottle, ready to flip it and use it as a club. Wasn’t her first time to do so.

“Like that one time you tried talking to Bobby Gordon but shat your panties because you were too scared. Excused yourself quickly and were too late for swim team because you scrambled to clean up your mess,” he said in a singsong tone—referencing an embarrassing memory that she had never told anybody else. Not the AA meeting groups, the anger management support groups—not even her therapist.

Struggling to understand how he knew the pause gave him cause to chuckle again.

He continued, “Or were you just so drunk off your ass that you told someone about that and can’t remember?” Another chuckle, more sinister this time. “Yes, I can taste what you’re thinking, Mary. Or maybe you told it to the thin air, reaching someone who’s now just another body, six feet under, whose memories bled through the thin fabric between worlds?”

“Okay, asshole. I see you’ve got some tricks. Is that the best you’ve got? Am I supposed to be impressed? Shit, man, if I was some sort of dillhole ghost, I would go join a circus or something.”

“A circus?” he asked in confusion.

“Yeah. Y'know, anywhere where people actually give a shit.”

He smirked again.

“Cute, Mary. So edgy. So rebellious.”

The sound of metal scraping cut through the air as he snatched a long sharp knife from the kitchen counter. The chair on the opposite side of the table groaned as he dragged it out, swiped some unopened letters and plastic junk from its seat, and sat down.

Mary’s weary eyes focused on the knife on his hands, clutched in his fist and resting on the table in between them now. She met his gaze again. Glared at him.

“If you’re not Malcolm, I’m gonna have to give you a different name. Least you can do if want to carve me up with that pig-sticker over yonder,” Mary said, pointing at the knife in his hand.

After the gesture, using two fingers, she let her fist slam onto the table. Not a motion fueled by rage, but by frustration, and fed by resignation. All the glass and plastic objects on the table stopped clattering with delay.

“I’d prefer Malcolm, given the meat-suit I’m wearing now. But you can call me Gall,” he said. Something evil flashed in his eyes. It did not even seem inhuman, just unfamiliar. Nothing like Malcolm, no matter what kind of a dick he had been to Mary.

“What kinda stupid fucking name is that?”

His eyes darted and tracked her every movement when she swiftly snatched the crumpled pack of cigarettes off the table, produced a cancer stick from the package and lit it up in one fluid motion, suggesting decades of unfiltered addiction. From the periphery of her vision, she saw his fist tighten around the grip of the knife.

“I’ll just call you shit-stick. And what exactly are you?”

The grin on his face returned. Widened. He tilted his head; movements that did not fit the way Malcolm moved or behaved in his lifetime. Alien, unsettling. He licked his lips but did not yet respond. Like he was sizing her up. His eyes scanned up and down her form.

“Come on, man. Level with me here. I’m sure your whole spiel here is a real hoot at parties and can scare old grandmas, but it’s not really doing anything for me,” she continued taunting him. “Also, if you’re gonna threaten me with a good time by waving that knife around, either fix me something to eat or end me now. I’m starving, and also good for kicking the bucket. Fuck, man. I’d rather puke than go on my next shift, so carving me up like a turkey’s gonna feel like a favor to me at this point.”

She sucked in more smoke. It did nothing to calm her nerves, only drove up her pulse, pounding in her ears. Mary blew it out after the long pause that followed, with nothing but the constant drip of water from the faucet into the dirty sink. Malcolm—Gall—did not answer.

She lifted her arm as if to check her wristwatch but kept her gaze locked onto his. A labored, deliberate sigh escaped her throat.

“You have many names for what I am,” he said. His voice silkier than before. “Ghost, revenant, demon. It doesn’t really matter. Your words are so limited in their scope, so confusing without elaboration. And we don’t have all night.”

Now she waited, continuing to smoke. She once more picked up the bottle of the stale beer to nurse it in between greedy drags from her cigarette.

Before the pause went on for too long and she could reply with another mean-spirited quip, Gall continued, “Have you not seen the signs? I am an agent. I serve the Glass King, and have come to remind you of your duty to Him.”

He spoke with such reverence. Such gravitas. Might as well have been a radio speaker, or one of those narrators on a cheesy movie. Mary blinked and then shook her head. Searching her mind for what he meant did nothing to help.

“I don’t understand a fucking word you’re saying,” she muttered. “Try English, shit-stick.”

He visibly stifled a sigh and lifted the knife, cradling it in his hand. He then used it to point to the pile of newspapers on the counter.

“Did you not see the words forming on the edges of your trash?” he asked. Then pointed the tip of the knife to her phone on the table, its display screen marked with a spiderweb of cracks. “Did you not see the messages that transcended worldly gibberish? Signs, everywhere, pointing you in the direction of finding meaning in your sorry life?”

He then pointed to the empty coffee cups on her table. “Hell, did you not even see the letters taking shape in the foam of your beverages? And here we thought your substance abuse would make you more receptive to the signs everywhere.”

It finally clicked for Mary. She had indeed been seeing strange patterns and signs everywhere. “Obey” or “buy a gun” or some ominous instructions that seemed to be ritualistic or occult in nature—many strange words had, in fact, been appearing to her with frightening regularity over the past week.

But she had been ignoring them. Chalking it up to all the medications and booze and recreational drugs she popped on a regular basis, things that instructions in tiny print told her not to mix.

At the end of the day, Mary was a realist. One whose mind had been turned to Swiss cheese by all the substance abuse, but a realist nevertheless. The sheer thought of that gave her cottonmouth and made her crave a joint.

“If you wanted me to get some message, then fucking spell it out instead of giving me some cryptic crap. I thought I was losing my mind, and was perfectly fine with that. Now you’re telling me it all made sense, which is somehow more obnoxious.”

Gall slowly nodded and his grinning lips parted to show teeth.

“Yes, Mary, now you’re getting it. The Glass King wants you. You will help prevent the end of the world as you know it. You, who yearn for meaning in this God-forsaken world. You, whose miserable and pathetic existence can serve a higher purpose, can help shape a new world. A world of your desires. Do you not feel it? Do you not feel its pull?”

Mary downed the rest of her beer, wincing at how bad it tasted—warm, and opened up for at least a day. It helped masked whatever truths this “Gall” was alluding to.

“You really don’t get it, do ya? Listen, shit-stick, and listen really carefully, okay?”

She slammed the bottle back down onto the table with force, causing all the objects to erupt into another cascade of clanking and clattering noise. He said nothing but his gaze drilled into her eyes, burning with anticipation.

“I’ve worked shit jobs for long enough to know management assholes when I see them. And I’m looking at one right now.”

“But—”

“Shut the fuck up,” she interrupted his interruption. “I’m speaking, shit-stick. You can go back to your boss and go tell him to get fucked. I ain’t doin’ shit for no pay. You’re trying to sell me on some ‘higher meaning’ bullshit like that’s supposed to motivate me? Might as well try to pay an artist with 'exposure,’ you stupid twat.”

“I, uh—”

“I said I’m talking.”

He sat there, slack-jawed, taken aback by her forceful speech. Like the smoke billowing out of her mouth, every word spilled out with repressed rage. Not one that threatened to boil over into violence, but a fury compressed into the shape of a diamond—sharp and smooth and hard and untouchable.

“Like I said, I know management pricks when I see them. I can see your weaselly little sniveling brown-nosing turd behavior from a mile away. I know you’re just here to get me to do something and if you fail to mobilize me, you’re in deep shit. I don’t know how things work over there, wherever you’re coming from. But I’m guessing that you don’t just get a pay cut or fired,” she said.

Now she, like him, flashed a toothy grin. Sadistic, angry, and beginning to enjoy herself.

Was her first in getting to fuck with a non-human entity.

“So how about I give you the finger,” she said, following up with the matching gesture of flipping him the bird. “And you go find someone else to do your dirty work for free.”

The demon was speechless. Never before had this entity seen anybody respond with such belligerent resistance and unrelenting venom in her words.

He eked out another evil grin, but Mary recognized the insecurity in it. Malcolm used to look exactly like that when he tried to impress people, and Gall was running out of cards to play. He raised the knife again, toyed with it, letting the handle roll around in his palm, causing the blade to cast scintillating reflections in the dingy kitchen light.

“I can be very persuasive. I can make things slow and painful, Mary.”

“Oh, fuck you,” she said with a groan, stamping out the next cigarette. She just glared at him, yielding no attention to the knife now. “I see right through cheap shit tricks like that. What stupid movie did you get that line from? You need me—you need me to do something, so you’ll need me at full capacity. Your threats are empty, you spineless shit stain.”

Without missing a beat, she lit up yet another cigarette and leaned over the table, shortening the distance between her and the knife.

“Try me, motherfucker. I can’t wait to die. Life sucks, so I will spite you by dying before I lift a single God-damned finger for you or whoever the fuck you work for,” she said. Her grin widened, the cigarette lazily drooping from the corner of her mouth, displaying even more spite. “I wonder what happens to you if you fail to get me to do whatever you want me to do. I bet that’s worse than whatever kiddo crap you’ve cooked up for me.”

The chair underneath Gall creaked and its legs scuffed over the filthy floor as he got up. He backed away from her and placed the knife back on the counter.

“Yeah, get the fuck outta here, you little chickenshit. You come here, wearing my little brother’s sorry-ass face, waving a knife around, threatening to torture me and end my life? Fuck you. Don’t come back until you come up with something scary.”

Gall continued to back away. The grin never left his face, but not one inch of it was sincere anymore. Just a mask to hide his growing dread.

Everything she had said rang true. Punishments for failure were no trifling matter. The Glass King’s orders needed completion. He would have to find someone else, for this Mary was not a lost lamb they could manipulate into doing their dirty work—she was just a lost cause.

“My shift’s gonna be nine hours, asshole. You can visit me at work or you can come waste my time when I’m back, or whisper your dumb sweet nothings in my ears while I’m trying to sleep. See if I give a shit,” she said, continuing to harass the demon as he continued to back out of her kitchen. “Maybe bring good dope or a massive dragon-shaped dildo next time, maybe you can bribe me. Maybe a stack of hundred dollar bills. See, I’m responsive to material goods and pleasures. But I bet you’re too cheap of a shit for that.”

She continued to rant, even well after he had gotten out of earshot and retreated from the old decrepit home. It was true what they said, Gall thought.

Humans were the fucking worst.

—Submitted by Wratts

[thewritewolf]

Rekindle Chapter 17: Rooftop Save

Marinette meets Emilie Agreste. 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30  31

@marichatmay​

Enjoy!

Read on Ao3

Marinette’s mind was racing as she stood in front of a beautiful middle aged woman clearly visible through the glass of her… life support? Sarcophagus? Who knows. Her eyes lingered on the preserved rose attached to her lapel. Was Emilie Agreste just a pressed flower, preserved against the encroachment of time?

Emilie Agreste. Adrien rarely opened up about her during all the years she had known him. Rarely, she had caught sight of a few pictures, saw her briefly on the movie screen. But she had never met her, never heard her voice. To Marinette, she had just been a ghost that she had known only through Adrien’s fond words.

And yet… Emilie Agreste had been alive all this time. Locked away and hidden beneath the Agreste manor, waiting for the moment Hawkmoth succeeded in his goal to bring her back. But now Hawkmoth had been defeated for good and from what Adrien was saying, she was running out of time. It broke her heart, but she was wary. Now that Adrien was aware of what his father was doing, would he try and continue Hawkmoth’s work?

Adrien was fiddling with the controls to the machine. Despite his lack of understanding, he was moving dexterously and with a purpose. Occasionally he glanced up at his sleeping mother and his expression would become clouded - in regret or anticipation, she didn’t know.

Several minute passes with only the sounds of his tinkering filling the silence before she decided to speak. “Adrien…?” He grunted. “What are you doing?”

He stopped what he was doing to turn back at her in confusion. “I’m waking her up,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

She considered not saying anything after that, but decided that getting to the point might be better. “You told me she can’t live for long outside of that thing, right?” He froze and stood there in silence for long heartbeats before going back to pushing buttons again.

In a quiet voice he replied, “I know.”

“What are you going to do when she is awake? We can’t do anything for her.”

“Well, we can, but…” He gave out a long, rattling sigh. “...But helping her would kill someone else. Right?” At her nod, he continued. “So she’ll die. It’ll be like nothing has changed.”

Marinette had been talking with Chat for long enough to know when he was trying to act detached. Despite how calmly he was talking, she could feel the roiling tension beneath the surface. She stepped behind him to wrap her arms around his waist, burying her face into his back.

“I’m so sorry, kitty.” His hands squeezed hers and they stood there unmoving for a few minutes before he began to chuckle. She let go reluctantly to stand at his side, watching him carefully.

He saw her look and coughed awkwardly. “Sorry. It’s just… lately, with the anniversary and everything coming up… I’d been thinking about her more.” He flashed her a sad smile and added, “I had been wishing that she could have met you at least once.” His smile faded and his eyes became downcast again. “I guess I got my wish after all. But at what cost?”

“All we can do now is make the most of it.” She watched him findle with the controls some more. “Do you actually know how to work that?”

“Not exactly. Nooroo told me a little, but the only one who would know for sure is Hawkmoth and… I don’t think he’d approve of this. Besides, I think I’m almost…” There was a hissing sound and flaring lights as the lid covering Emilie started to come off. Utterly entranced with the spectacle, Adrien ended with a whisper, “...Done.”

For a long moment, nothing happened and she continued to lay motionless. Marinette was just about to reach out to Adrien when Emilie’s eyes fluttered. A hand went to her forehead and a pained expression crossed her face as she began to pull herself out. In an instant, Adrien was by her side and helping her out, keeping her steady as she got to her feet.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” came the bright voice, “I seem to be… a little…” Her vibrant green eyes,went from being unfocused to wide and alert as she stared at who was helping her. Her voice was barely above a whisper, panicked and reverent in equal measure, “...Adrien?”

There were tears in eyes that were so like her own as he replied, “It’s me, mom. Its been… so long.” Despite the tears running freely down both of their faces, he smiled. “There’s a lot we need to catch up on.”

-------------------------

Emilie, Marinette was learning, is a remarkably adaptable woman. The news of her husband’s transgressions, her own impending death, and being held in stasis for ten years were all taken in stride. Adrien by way of Nooroo had estimated that they would have two hours and it had only taken maybe half an hour to get all of that out of the way.

As they sipped coffee in the dining room, Marinette listened to them talk. It felt like she shouldn’t be here, like she was an intruder on this very personal moment. This was an emotional reunion between mother and son. What right did she have to be there? Maybe she should just-

“I don’t think you’ve introduced us yet, sweetheart.” Emilie turned her full attention on Marinette, resting her chin upon her steepled fingers.

Grinning, Adrien wrapped an arm around Marinette and pulled her closer. “This is Marinette Dupain-Cheng! She is the kindest, bravest, and most talented person I’ve ever met.”

Which began a round of Adrien talking her up, listing all her accomplishments, big and small, while Marinette’s blush steadily threatened to take over her entire face. To her surprise, he even talked about the milestones that had happened while they had been out of touch. Which set to rest the idea that he had ever been avoiding her. Had they really just been idiots for all these years? Once she finally stopped staring dumbstruck at Adrien, she glanced over at Emilie and realized that she was looking right back at her. There was a pleased smile on her face and she gave a quick wink to Marinette before turning her attention back to Adrien’s rambling.

After a few more minutes, Emilie cut in to say, “Sunshine, could you get us a refill from the kitchen, please?”

“Of course!” Adrien disappeared through the large double doors leading to the kitchen.

“He’s grown up to be such a kind young man. I was worried, leaving him with just Gabriel.” She smiled ruefully.

“I think we have you to thank for that, Mrs. Agreste.”

“Heaven knows I tried, but…” She took Marinette’s hand. “...I don’t think he would have made it this far by himself. Whether you know it or not, he’s better because of you.” A few moments passed with that small contact before she pulled away and frowned at the door he disappeared through. “There isn’t anyone left. He’s alone now.”

The polite smile Marinette had been wearing evaporated. Her voice was barely above a whisper. “I know.”

“Can you… watch out for him… please?” Emilie put a hand to her temple, brows furrowed.

“Are you alright?” She leapt from her seat when Emilie collapsed off of hers. “Adrien!”

While Marinette was crouched over her, Emilie croaked out, “Please. Promise me, you’ll watch out for him.”

The door flew open as Marinette replied, “He's in good hands. I promise.”

----------------------------

It is strange, how quickly two hours can pass and yet the rest of a day can drag on forever. They’d startled the poor guard watching the Agreste manor half to death, but Adrien had wanted to be sure there was a proper burial this time. He hadn’t wanted his mother to languish in the manor any longer than she had already. They’d gone home and just found ways to avoid talking about what was really on their minds until the sun was down. Then they’d gone to bed, too drained to dream.

Marinette woke up at midnight thanks to a chill coming in from the partially open window. Even if she hadn’t felt his absence in the bed beside her, she would have know he wasn’t there. On the nightstand, the little kwami bed she’d made for the two of them was occupied solely by Tikki, who was peacefully dozing. After putting on her warmest robe, she open the window fully and climbed up the fire escape to the roof of her apartment.

Just as she suspected, he was sitting there, blonde hair gently tousled by the breeze. He was looking out over the city with a distant stare, his mind clearly somewhere else. She saw his cat ears twitch as she sat down beside him and curled up against him. A strong breeze made her shiver and Chat finally reacted, pulling her onto his lap and wrapped his arms around her. She nestled herself into the crook of his neck as he settled his chin on her head.

“You should’ve stayed inside, Mari.”

“And leave my kitty out in the cold? Never.”

“This kitty is used to the cold.”

“Doesn’t mean that you need to stay out in it.”

There was a long silence following her words before he spoke again.

“I should probably feel bitter or sad or something right now, shouldn’t I?” She didn’t reply, sensing that he needed to talk this out himself. “But the truth is, I did all my mourning already. If anything, I feel… complete now. Like, I have closure, I know what happened to her. She didn’t abandon us. When she…” He swallowed heavily and started again. “When she passed, I was there for her.”

“But…?”

“Now I’m orphan. Sure, Gabriel is alive, but he might as well not be. Hawkmoth is going to jail for a long time - which is good!” He quickly added. “He deserves it for all the people he’s hurt. But I don’t really have any other family. Excluding mom’s…” he took another deep, steadying breath, “...first funeral, I haven’t really seen any of them since I was a kid.”

“Maybe… but that’s what it was like before, right? Gabriel wasn’t exactly father of the year before his reveal.”

He chuckled. “You got me there. But I also wasn’t in the best place then either. I don’t have many friends, and with Alya and Nino out of country so often, I’m alone most of the time.”

She pulled back enough to look him in the eye and cocked an eyebrow at him. “What about me?”

He rubbed the back of his neck and she was surprised to see a blush peeking out from underneath his mask. “That’s… I wanted to talk with you about that, actually.”

Fighting down the fluttering butterflies in her stomach, she replied, “...Alright. What is there to talk about?”

“I’m so sorry.” He hunched his shoulders and looked down at the ground. “I… I was too much of a coward to keep our friendship alive after school. I just… I thought…” His cat ears flattened on his head. “...I thought you wouldn’t want to see me again after that rejection.”

“Chat… Adrien… I understand. Confessing at graduation wasn’t my best decision, but I just… it suddenly hit me that it might be the last time I would ever get to see you. I wanted you to know how I felt. How I still feel.”

“So… you forgive me?”

She laughed. “Only if you forgive me for rejecting you as Ladybug.”

“How can I refuse such a sweet deal?” He grinned at her in his usual cocky way, just like his old self again, before the nervousness crept back in. “So… where does that leave us then?”

“Where do you want it to leave us?” She looked into his eyes, watching carefully as she waited for his answer.

“I think,” he took her hand in his and gently rubbed his thumb across the back of it, “I want to stay with you.” His gaze flickered to hers. “If that’s alright with you?”

She leaned in towards his face slowly, hesitating at the last moment before he closed the remaining space between them. They shared a tender kiss in the moonlight. She whispered against his lips as they began to pull away, “Sounds perfect to me.”

[ofthemuses]

True Detective Sentence Meme: Season One (another of my favorites, well, the first season at least.)

WARNING: Triggering content, NSFW content, religion/death/violence/sex/drugs/suicide mentioned. Lots of foul language 

Regular Quotes

I'd consider myself a realist, alright? But in philosophical terms I'm what's called a pessimist...

Oh, just a regular type dude... with a big ass dick.

People out here, it's like they don't even know the outside world exists. Might as well be living on the fucking Moon.

It's all one ghetto man.

Stop saying shit like that. It's unprofessional.

So what's the point of getting out of bed in the morning?

I tell myself I bear witness, but the real answer is that it's obviously my programming. And I lack the constitution for suicide.

Let's make the car a place of silent reflection from now on.

Can I ask you something? You're a Christian, yeah?

I know who I am. And after all these years, there's a victory in that.

Can you get pills pretty easy?

Listen, when you're at my house, I want you to chill the fuck out.

There's nothing I can do about it. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but... I'm gonna have a drink.

Given how long its taken for me to reconcile my nature, I can't figure I'd forgo it on your account.

Hmm. That sounds God-fucking-awful.

Isn't that a beautiful way to go out, painlessly as a happy child?

Trouble with dying later is you've already grown up. The damage is done. It's too late.

I can be hard to live with. I don't mean to, but I can be... critical.

Sometimes I think I'm just not good for people, that it's not good for them to be around me. 

Such holy bullshit from you. It's a woman's body, ain't it? A woman's choice.

Girls walk this Earth all the time screwin' for free. Why is it you add business to the mix and boys like you can't stand the thought? I'll tell you. It's cause suddenly you don't own it the way you thought you did.

Is shitting on any moment of decency part of your job description?

Nothing man, sorry, forget it.

You got some self loathing to do this morning, that's fine, but it ain't worth losing your hands over.

What's your deal?

I don't have "a deal".

You're kinda strange, like you might be dangerous.

Of course I'm dangerous. I'm police. I can do terrible things to people with impunity.

Now what do you mean exactly... these visions you mentioned.

Shiiiiit, just what have you two heard about me?

What the hell good is cake if you can't eat it?

You know, throughout history, I bet every old man probably said the same thing. And old men die, and the world keeps spinnin'.

What do you think the average IQ of this group is, huh?

Just observation and deduction. I see a propensity for obesity. Poverty. A yen for fairy tales.

I think it's safe to say nobody here's gonna be splitting the atom.

You see that. Your fucking attitude. 

 Not everybody wants to sit alone in an empty room beating off to murder manuals.

Yeah, well if the common good's gotta make up fairy tales, then it's not good for anybody.

Well, I don't use ten dollar words as much as you, but for a guy who sees no point in existence, you sure fret about it an awful lot.

I mean, can you imagine if people didn't believe, what things they'd get up to?

Exact same thing they do now. Just out in the open.

Bullshit. It'd be a fucking freak show of murder and debauchery and you know it.

If the only thing keeping a person decent is the expectation of divine reward, then brother that person is a piece of shit; and I'd like to get as many of them out in the open as possible.

Well, I guess your judgment is infallible, piece-of-shit-wise.

You figure it's all a scam, huh? All them folks? They just wrong?

People incapable of guilt usually do have a good time.

Do you wonder ever if you're a bad man?

World needs bad men. We keep the other bad men from the door.

But I think I'm all fucked up.

You don't have to fall in love at first sight, you know.

Every time I think you've hit a ceiling, you, you keep raising the bar. You're like the Michael Jordan of being a son of a bitch.

Fuuuck! Hell of a bedside manner you've got.

Ahh, you know, being stupid is different than going in sick, and this is a bar, not a fuckin' bedside.

All the dick swagger you roll, you can't spot crazy pussy?

So, enough with the self-improvement-penance-hand-wringing shit. Let's go to work.

Oh God damn it, I am so done talking to you like a man.

What the fuck you think I want with you, huh?

I'm sorry. What are you suggesting, exactly?

I will skull-fuck you, you bitch!

This is none of my business... I don't want to hear it.

Do you know the good years when you're in them, or do you just wait for them until you get ass cancer?

What always happens between men and women? Reality.

Someone once told me time is a flat circle.

The newspapers are gonna be tough on you.

No, buddy, without me... there is no you.

Yeah. Fuck this. Fuck this world.

You know, people that give me advice, I reckon they're talking to themselves.

A man's game charges a man's price. Take that away from this, if nothing else.

I'm the person least in the need of counseling in this entire fucking state.

Thought maybe we should talk.

If you get the opportunity, you should kill yourself.

Hey, man, look. Why don't you just get out of here, please? I don't want to get arrested. Just - just get... before I do something to you.

I slept with someone... And you know him/her... You're close.

Oh... Now, what-what are you saying?... What - what are you - what the fuck are you saying to me?

Life's barely long enough to get good at one thing. So be careful what you get good at.

If you were drowning, I'd throw you a fuckin' barbell.

Why would I ever help you?

Hey. You better get those jumper cables ready, the motherfucker is lying.

Get on out of here, you're classin' the place up.

My family's been here a long, long time.

He ain't gonna talk with you.

I got a car battery and two jumper cables argue different.

A man remembers his debts.

Fuck, I don't like this place... Nothing grows in the right direction.

What happened in my head is not something that gets better.

Well you know what, I just got here; I was gonna leave, but then you woke up - Jesus, what's your fuckin' problem?

Not a care in the world.

I'm not supposed to be here.

Yeah... well, I'll come back by tomorrow, buddy.

Don't ever change, man.

Agh. Ah, fuck. Ah, he got me pretty good...

Do I strike you as a talker or a doer?

You'll rip out your fucking stitches. Stop it.

This is the place.

Everybody's got a choice, ____... Shit, I sure blamed you.

There you go... Everybody's got a choice.

It's hard to find something in a man who rejects people as much as you do, you know that?

Come die with me, little priest.

The DEEP SHIT™

I think human consciousness is a tragic misstep in evolution.

There can be a burden in authority, in vigilance, like a father's burden.

I think the honorable thing for our species to do is to deny our programming. Stop reproducing, walk hand in hand into extinction - one last midnight, brothers and sisters opting out of a raw deal. 

This place is like somebody's memory of a town, and the memory is fading.

I contemplate the moment in the garden; the idea of allowing your own crucifixion.

I don't sleep, I just dream. 

You got kids? I think of the hubris it must take, to yank a sole out of nonexistence into this meat; a force of life into this thresher.

I know who I am. And after all these years, there's a victory in that.

Yeah, back then, the visions, yeah most of the time I was convinced... Shit... I'd lost it. But there were other times... I thought I was mainlining the secret truth of the universe.

I mean, it's like somethin's got your name on it, like a bullet or a nail in the road...

People... so goddamn frail they'd rather put a coin in the wishing well than buy dinner.

This... This is what I'm talking about. This is what I mean when I'm talkin' about time, and death, and futility.

They welcomed it... not at first, but... right there in the last instant. It's an unmistakable relief. See, cause they were afraid, and now they saw for the very first time how easy it was to just... let go.

All your life--you know, all your love, all your hate, all your memories, all your pain--it was all the same thing. It was all the same dream, a dream that you had inside a locked room, a dream about being a person.

And like a lot of dreams, there's a monster at the end of it.

You see, we all got what I call a life trap - a gene deep certainty that things will be different...

Nothing's ever fulfilled, not until the very end. And closure - nothing is ever over.

I have seen the finale of thousands of lives, man. Young, old, each one so sure of their realness. You know that their sensory experience constituted a unique individual with purpose and meaning. So certain that they were more than biological puppet. The truth wills out, and everybody sees. Once the strings are cut, all fall down.

In eternity, where there is no time, nothing can grow. Nothing can become. Nothing changes. So Death created time to grow the things that it would kill.

And you are reborn, but into the same life that you've always been born into. I mean, how many times have we had this conversation? Well, who knows?

When you can't remember your lives, you can't change your lives, and that is the terrible and the secret fate of all life. You're trapped by that nightmare you keep waking up into.

I can see your soul at the edges of your eyes. It's corrosive, like acid. 

Sometimes... this feeling like life has slipped through your fingers... like the future is behind you, like it's always been behind you.

There's a shadow on you, son.

I saw you in my dream. You're in Carcosa now with me... He sees you... You'll do this again... Time is a flat circle.

There's no such thing as forgiveness. People just have short memories.

All my life I wanted to be nearer to God. But the only nearness - silence.

Some people, no matter where they look, they see themselves.

You see, sometimes people... mistake a child as an answer for something, you know, like a way to change their story.

Look, as sentient meat, however illusory our identities are, we craft those identities by making value judgments: everybody judges, all the time. Now, you got a problem with that... You're livin' wrong.

Once there was only dark. If you ask me, the light's winning.

[pizzamaximoff]

The Sketch Artist’s Obsession (Jerome Valeska x Artist! Reader)

Here’s a request for @avengers-and-jedis , I’m so sorry its late I've been bogged down with a bunch of school work and assessments AND Inktober. Again I’m so sorry I didn't get it done earlier but damn I’m tired af. I’ve had to change up a little of the canon storyline just to do this how I wanted to. Just adding in some lil bits to add to the case to fit in with the reader being an artist. BTW they sent me some hella good art of Jerome and it kinda inspired parts of this.

Word count: 2,701

Working in the Gotham City Police department had its ups and downs. Sure it was dark and generally solum with petty criminals being filed in everyday and new cases being raised and brought to attention. That was something Gotham was never short of: crime. Yet with all the misery brought in you can’t help but find it thrilling, even though you were the lead sketch artist you still end up working with the main department, often being present for various interrogations.

It was a a cold day when you first met Jerome Valeska. A light snow covered the city but the office was warm with life, yet it wasn’t a reassuring warmth. More like that of raging fire. Full of anger. Making your way from the break room to your quaint little office you stopped in your track in shock at your surroundings. The department was heaving: an entire circus was literally brought in, their brightly coloured costumes contrasting against the dark office area. Your mouth was slightly ajar, shocked at the odd scene you were witnessing. Detectives and officers kept two groups of the circus workers apart. One clearly being clowns, their makeup heavy and costumes absurd. Judging from the tight spandex of the other groups you made an educated guess that they were acrobats. It was obvious their was some form of family feud going on here. The absurdity of the whole situation made you laugh quietly to yourself. You were about to move to your tiny office when you heard your name being called out amongst the babble of angry performers. You turned to see Detective Gordon waving you over, his face dark and brooding as usual. You weaved in an out of the various people clogging up the department to reach him, letting out a sigh once you emerged from the mass. 

“What is it Jim?” You asked. He smiled lightly at you, the dark mood in his features lifting for a moment. You had always been the department baby, being the youngest there, he had a soft spot for you. “Just as a precaution, I might need you, the victim’s son said he saw a strange individual around the circus but has no idea who he is. An outsider” He spoke giving you a small pat on the shoulder before leading you into the small office. You rolled your eyes at this, instantly certain that your witness wouldn't be able to give you much to go on. It wouldn't be the first time. Placing your work sketchbook and pencil set on the desk you took a seat next to Jim. Looking up you finally noticed the boy in the room. His fiery red hair was parted and swept to the side neatly. Slight sniffles, the lasting remnants of tears, shook his body in every few moments. Your initial distaste was dropped in an instant as sympathy for the boy filled you. He wasn't much younger than you by the looks of it and you instantly felt terrible for him, if you were in his position you wouldn't be much different. “Hi Jerome, we just need to ask you a few questions to help us find out whoever murdered your mother” Jim spoke sincerely with a gentle but forced smile on his face. Jerome, as you now learnt, looked up from the desk. His sea green eyes were glazed over with tears threatening to spill, his nose and cheeks were a soft pink making him look delicate and vulnerable as ever. He quickly wiped his eyes before muttering a quiet ‘sure’. You couldn't help the small endearing smile     you sent him as he glanced over to you. His lips twitching ever so slightly in a shy manner.   Jim began to ask him questions and Jerome answered, clear and precisely. You listened intently but as you did so you were unequivocally aware of how pretty he was. Even in this state he was rather gorgeous. You managed to keep these views hidden, for your face was stoic. However it was when Jim asked him of his opinion on his mothers ‘love life’ you cracked. “Sex is a perfectly healthy and normal human activity, Detective” Usually you would be perfectly fine with this statement but with the lingering gaze he gave you and the faintest hint of a smirk you lost it. Your usually composed face was tinged with pink as you coughed lightly and fidgeted with the papers on the desk. As for Jim his eyes slightly widened before moving swiftly along. He asked of the unknown man and if Jerome had seen him before and where. This was your turn to step in. “As you said you got a clear view of this strange character, I’ll leave you with my colleague here to draw up a sketch of the man. With that it should be much easier to identify the suspects.” With a nod to you Jim exited the room leaving you and Jerome alone. You held your hand out to him with a smile. “Hi, I’m (Y/N), lead sketch artist at the precinct.” He softly held onto your hand and gave it a small shake. It was surprisingly warm, contrasting with the cold office. “We’re going to start with a general shape of the man and then move into the features. I’m going to need you to be as specific and with as much detail as possible so we can get the most accurate depiction, Is that okay?” You spoke as you opened the book to a fresh page, setting out your pencils. “That sounds good to me” He spoke, his voice seemed much more confident than before but you brushed it off as nothing, ready to begin the work.

Around half an hour later you were finished, the process being surprisingly easy and quick due to Jerome’s immense level of description of the man. You looked over the sketch, something about it seemed familiar but you couldn't place your finger on it. You passed the book to Jerome asking if it was correct. He let out a small noise of surprise before speaking. “Wow, that’s him, you managed to get it perfect…” He trailed up looking at you with awe. It was a heartwarming sight and you smiled brightly in response. You simply looked at each other for a moment, it was strange but comfortable yet it ended as soon as it began. You shook your head slightly and stood. He passed the book to you gently as you spoke quietly. “I’m going to hand this to the detectives, hopefully they can catch the guy who did this.” He looked down again sadness seemingly washing over him again. You reached the door and as you were about to leave you stopped abruptly before turning to face him over your shoulder. “Oh and Jerome,” He looked up quickly, eager to hear what you had to say,” If you ever want to talk, my office is the fourth on the left. Feel free to drop in anytime, don’t bother knocking I would love to chat sometime” And with one last smile shared between the pair of you, you left.

You waited for Jim and Leslie to finish their conversation with a blind elderly gentlemen before walking to them, sketchbook in hand. Exchanging a quick greeting to Leslie you turned to Jim presenting the page of the potential suspect. “Jerome says this is what the unidentified man at the circus looked like. I feel like I recognise him but I can’t pinpoint it” You explain to him, it takes him a few seconds before his eyes widen and shock registers on his face. He jogs to a computer, yourself and Lee following confused and intrigued. He delves into some files and soon after a newspaper scanning is brought onto the screen. A missing person of interest. Deacon Blackfire, for suspicion of leading the infamous Hellfire club. You gasped shocked at the sight. “Do you think he killed Lila?” Lee questioned excitement at the revelation in her voice. Jim shook his head, skeptical. “No, it doesn't make sense, Blackfire hasn't been seen in a decade. Its highly unlikely he comes back just to kill a snake dancer-“ You cut him off speaking yourself. “I’m not sure Jim, Jerome was certain it was him. Blackfire has a memorable face, theres not many psychos like him. You’ve got to at least take a look into this, Jerome lost his mother at least give him closure” Jim sighed, you  He was clearly unsure but with you and Lee both pestering him he promised to research into it the next day.

That night, you went home content. Hopeful in the crime being on its way to being solved. After entering your apartment and changing into something comfortable, you boiled the kettle and made a cup of chamomile. Popping the mug on the side table you then not-so-gracefully threw yourself into your armchair, pulling the throw over yourself. You reached for your personal sketchbook ready to express your emotions on the pages. Sharpened pencil in hand you began to draw, built up stresses leaving your body as the graphite dragged on the page. Clowns, acrobats and various characters danced around the edges of the page, you weren't concentrating on the specific subject of your drawings, just eager to create. Once the pages had been filled you placed the book on your lap content with your work. As you looked you halted, there in the centre of the many doodles was a sketch of Jerome. Your palm met your face and a hopeless sigh left your mouth. How did you not even realise you were drawing him? You had been with him for maximum an hour yet he he was forever in your book as a drawing. It came naturally to you, maybe it was his pretty face or gentle sweet nature that was hiding something beneath. Oh wouldn't you like to know what was lurking behind the piercing green eyes. You closed the book and placed it back on the side table. After finishing your tea you prepared for bed for it was late and you were already exhausted. You began to drifted into the realm of sleep, just before you passed over you could distantly hear the buzzing of your phone. Someone was calling you but you ignored it already too far gone. Whatever it was could wait till tomorrow.

You rushed into the precinct a hot mess. Hair was messy and clothes thrown together rather unprofessionally. You had slept in: kept in a blissful dream with a certain ginger. You stuck to the walls, not too keen on being scolded by Captain Essen for being late. You passed Harvey who gave you a quick look over before grinning. “Damn Kid, you look like you just came back from the dead. What happened?” Well at least someone was finding this funny. You rolled your eyes and gave a gruff response. “Slept in” before pushing past, deperately trying to ignore his loud laughter. You loved Harvey, he was a great guy, but damn was he annoying. You walked into your office and not paying attention to your office you walked straight into Jim. You apologised quickly and walked to the desk, not bothering to ask why he was in here. “We solved the case.” He spoke, you pricked up at this, however the dark expression on his face caused your stomach to churn. Did something bad happen, was Jerome hurt? “It wasn't Blackfire who killed Lila Valeska.” He walled towards you a brown case file in hand. Your head tilted in confusion. If not Blackfire than who? They had managed to solve it in the night so it can't have been too obscure a suspect. “It was Jerome.” With that he chucked the file on your desk. The mugshot spilling out. With shaking hands you lifted the photo, gasping in horror and shock. A manic smile twisted his features, this was not the same boy you met in that dark office. You look up at Jim, eyes wide. He held no emotion in his as he continued speaking. “He’s been sent to Arkham, the boy’s insane.” With no more words he left. Leaving you in your shock as you continued to stare at the photo in hand.

Months passed but you still thought of him. You knew it was wrong: he was criminally insane, the boy committed matricide! Yet the attraction never left. He found his way into pages upon pages of your books, getting to the point where you were drawing him at work and hiding from your colleagues. ‘It’s harmless’ you would tell yourself, just a school girl crush. He was locked away so its not like it would blossom into anything. A slightly odd obsession, yes but it would cause no issue. This was the case until you were all called into the main area of the department. A breakout in Arkham, a group of so called ‘Maniax’ were formed, causing chaos in Gotham. There he was. That insane grin, the shocking eyes and fire like hair. Jerome was out of Arkham. Your heart skipped a beat at the sight. Slipping away from the gathering of workers. Your breathing had quickened. Both fear and excitement coursing through your veins. He was out. You knew he was dangerous, yet the ‘love’ grew inside you.

Gunshots, screams, yells of agony and insane laughter. You hid under your desk shaking like an autumnal leaf. The precinct was being massacred. There was nothing you could do to protect yourself, your job didn't permit you to carry a weapon nor have you ever needed one. The best chance you had of survival was under the dark oak of the desk. Luckily it covered all view of you from the door, but it was an obvious hiding place. Your heart was thumping in your ears and breath shallow.  The door slammed open, almost being knocked straight off it’s hinges. Footsteps entered and the door was slammed shut again. Contrary to before your heart seemed to stop as the voice filled your mind. “(Y/N)! I’m back, you did say not to knock!” It was Jerome, his voice dipping with the confidence that you had only imagined you heard before. So that was the real him. “Although you might have to pay for that, does the insurance cover it?” a sickening cake bounced of the walls. It was deranged but in no way did you hate it. You were simply too shocked to respond, frozen in your state of disbelief. His steps got closer, the thin wood of the desk being the only thing separating you from his sight and him from yours. The sound of paper and pages being turned, were all to be heard. He was silent, absorbed in the work. “Well it seems like I have quite the admirer” he chuckled, it was low and raspy, incredibly attractive. A blush filled your face as you began to feel faint. Still without reply he continued.  “You”re as good as I remember, although I did prefer your pretty face to your amazing skills” His voice got closer; he was walking around the desk. His legs came into view. “I have to say (Y/N), this conversation is feeling rather one-sided,” he down to your level, his green eyes met your own (e/c) ones. “And I do remember you stating you’d love to chat.” That manic grin stretched onto his pale skin, which was stained with blood, you were unsure if it was his or another’s. At that moment you didn't care, a bright smile made its way onto your face. Shock flashed in his eyes for a short second. You spoke up for the first time. “I missed you, Jerome”. “Well Princess let’s get out of here” Pulling you out from the hiding spot he laughed again and you count help but join in with him. Deep in your head there was a voice, nagging at you to run, to stop this madness and ignore this obsession, but it was too late. You were already in the grasp of Jerome Valeska.

Sorry if its crap I'm having a shit life atm guys but I’ll try to post more often!!

[fitzpirations]

Spoiler Alert

Feel the need to share this well-written recap of this Gillian Flynn miniseries. I’ve been watching it with my mother the past few nights, and tonight we watched the last three episodes. Usually we watch one and go it can’t end like that and get through part of another before she falls asleep, and we have to pack it up. 

Tonight we were riveted. And, in general, we hate the show. It’s awful. It’s full of whimsy artistic shots and loud music and we watch it with the subtitles because our television is cheap and everyone seems to be whispering. But it’s also so great and keeps pulling you in and we couldn’t look away. Except for a self-harm scene, I looked away for that. It’s necessary for the story but Too. Real. 

There’s plenty I didn’t like about the experience. I thought the small town setting was, like always, convenient. I thought Camille’s scars are like Michael Scofield’s tattoos in prisonbreak, just a bit too neat, right? How did she get the words on her back my mom murmured in disbelief. A mirror, probably. I’m not saying someone couldn’t do that to themselves. It’s just a lot. Certain characters were so subdued or in-your-face that they annoyed the crap out of me. Amma is this pouty innocent girl at the home and a ballsy, rude partying teenager outside. She’s clingy to her sister but also nasty to her. Adora’s entire being irritated me every episode, the soft way she spoke, her context-less escalations of conversations with Camille, not wanting any part of her story or anything. Alan is practically furniture and his character gives the least amount of anything. But in the end, they tick me off and it’s on purpose, it’s real and it’s great writing. 

As Bastién highlights, Alan and the chief are violently complicit, and no one in town every says what they mean. Flynn gives us so much, and in researching the finale more, and watching the end credits for closure- my mother and I completely missed a telling reveal of the murders and I excitedly told her while she brushed her teeth and told me to be quiet because it’s 1 am- I came across some quotes from the book in the comments. Now my experience with Flynn is brief, I’ve seen her name around and lamented the spelling, and I’ve seen Gone Girl. The prose, from the small snippet I saw, is great. Finishing Sharp Objects, I’m reminded why I never read Flynn’s work, and that she is the same person who wrote Gone Girl. 

The review above sums up all the major plot points well, and touches on Richard’s role in the end. I think Chris Messina’s acting in the last episode was probably the highlight of his work the whole show, from the look of knowing something at the door of the house, to his kindness and instant recoil at Adams’s Camille upon seeing her scars, to his simple, but weighty “I’m sorry” in the hospital. It goes without saying Amy Adams was robbed of every acting award for this as well. It’s foolish to wish they characters could find some peace within each other, and the show doesn’t offer that. Apparently the book doesn’t give that final scene at the hospital, just that we never hear from him again. Camille tries to hurt herself again, Amma goes to jail, it ends with a reflection of parenting and poison. 

I don’t know. It was very effective television, even when it had its issues. Wikipedia tells me the director fought with half the crew about his imagery and forced him to used the dialogue in the script- a good choice. There’s a lot we don’t get, Camille’s full story in the woods, her upbringing with her fake sick sister, a happy ending, a sense of solace. I like that we don’t learn everything, we have to assume, listen to the mentally ill Camille who either brushes off the idea of her trauma, staunchly tells one abuser she’s moved on, or seems to say “yeah, sure, that was me.” We learn how crazy she was in Wind Gap, all the things the townspeople think of her, when she left the town, except we don’t. We just hear that people are talking. And that’s all they ever do- but as Detective Willis says, if the things people say are half-true, it’s a problem. 

Overall I’m conflicted. I think generally I’m pleased a piece of art can illicit such a strong response out of both me and my mother, as she often writes off these shows in the end. But we were both impacted. I do think all the spider imagery and the constant flashing of Marian in the mirrors and the rehab roommate’s bloody face were a bit too much. But that’s just it, I guess. It’s stifling in Wind Gap. Camille is suffocating. This ending episode especially, where we see Amma approach the door of the house, only to be stopped, the girls sluggish and drugged... it seems all but impossible to get out. Later we learn Amma is the killer, and that she had no incentive to leave her cushy house where her mother and father help her ignore her crimes, because certainly they knew. A youtube comment pointed this out well, about the dollhouse and about how Adora seems to declare she’s glad Amma is off the hook at dinner. It’s all insane. Camille and John Keene hooking up was meaningful but also wild. Yet in the environment the women live in, there is nothing but lashing out, and subduing things with drugs and alcohol, ignoring the obvious, subverting. 

Nothing actually matters in the town. The twisted “Calhoun Day” is a tale of violation and Confederate loyalty, yet the town relishes in it. The roller-blading trio are always out past curfew drunk and high, and vulnerable to the killer out there. Yet of course they are the killers, but that doesn't seem to matter. Alan and Adora don’t sleep in the same room but it’s all the same on the outside. Camille and the detective never go on a real date, but to everyone in town they’re practically married. To his credit, he tries very hard to understand it all- his is my favorite perspective of the series because he acts as the audience's viewpoint the most. He’s the outsider looking in, baffled. I don’t think everything is perfect, but Flynn is telling us this is real. You can’t look away. It’s gritty. It’s gruesome. People cut themselves and kill each other and dope themselves and let others poison them and run trains on each other in the woods and we can’t dispute it. This stuff happens, and there isn’t always resolve. One would hope Camille’s article, which is achingly, beautifully written touches someone caught in the mothering cycle she is. Needless to say, after watching this show, I’m happy to turn to my chaotic, sheltered version of 2020, and think thank God I don’t live in the South.